


Genesis

by ashelt



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: All the blushing, Anders/Fenris rivalry, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Isabela antics, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 56,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17103410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashelt/pseuds/ashelt
Summary: Perhaps she should have been afraid. Any sane person would be, but, ask anyone---Hawke wasn’t overburdened with an abundance of sanity.





	1. Chapter 1

Perhaps she should have been afraid. Any sane person would be, but, ask anyone---Hawke wasn’t overburdened with an abundance of sanity. After all, the threat in question didn’t seem to be a threat at all: sure, he had just yanked someone’s heart out of their chest with the ease of a cranky Lothering farmer lifting an onion from the ground, but he had made no moves to harm Hawke, or her companions, for that matter. Close behind her, Anders audibly shifted, discomfort written across his features. Varric, however, had a grin of awe across his face, holstering Bianca and gazing at the still-beating heart on the Lowtown pavement. Aveline remained impassive, as usual.

“Nice trick.”

 

\----

“You’re...not what I expected,” he admitted. In fact, the only way he could be more surprised at the haphazard group before him was if they had somehow recruited a Qunari. The most threatening of them was an obviously Fereldan woman in full guard regalia. Although she was certainly the most formidable, she stood behind the rest, and didn’t appear to be in charge. His eyes glanced over a smug dwarf with a crossbow (was that a pencil behind his ear?) and a tall blonde man with the expression of someone suffering from horrible indigestion. All three of them were looking from him to the woman who had just spoken.

She was small, with an unassuming stance. Had he only seen her on the street, he wouldn’t have expected her to be any kind of hazard. She wore cream colored leathers and a longbow slung crookedly across her back. Her hair was in a thick braid, and was dark (brown? black?), but not nearly as dark as her eyes. Her head was tilted to one side, with a thoughtfully amused expression across her face.

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“I believe an explanation is in order,” he said, clearing his throat.

“I am Fenris. These men were here to regain a Tevinter magister’s lost property...namely, myself. I apologize, when I asked Anso to find me a mercenary group, I did not realize the opposition would be so numerous.”

“We managed,” she said, with a wink to the dwarf. “I am Hawke. This is Varric, our resident loveable dwarf; Aveline, the long arm of the Kirkwall law,” (at this, Aveline rolled her eyes) “and this miserable fellow is Anders,” she finished, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. Anders snorted at that, face relaxing at last. 

“I’m afraid I’m inclined to ask more of you,” Fenris cautiously said. “The magister that sent these men is here, holed up in a mansion in Hightown.” He paused. “This,” he proffered the bag of gold, “you have already earned. If you join me in killing my former master, everything in his mansion is yours.”

Hawke wasted no time on hesitation. 

“Lead the way.”

He almost smiled, for the first time in years.


	2. Chapter 2

He certainly wasn’t hard to keep track of, this Fenris, mused Hawke to herself. Though his movements were silent, he gleamed like a beacon against the stormy night skies. They met minimal opposition, a few guardsman pretenders, and quickly cleaved through them to arrive at the mansion. 

“This is the place?” Hawke asked, scanning the exterior for any alternative exits.

“Yes. Be wary. I’m sure the magister has many unpleasant traps set for us.”

“It just so happens that traps are Varric’s specialty,” she said with a crooked grin. 

“ONE mishap with a bear trap and suddenly  _ I _ have to be the expert here,” groused Varric, stretching to elbow Hawke in the ribs. “All right, hero and co,” he sighed. “After me.”

Fenris was not wrong. They encountered several nasty release traps that Varric easily disabled, Bianca in one hand and a switchblade in the other. 

“Just once, I’d like a challenge.”

“Maker above, Varric, don’t jinx us,” said Aveline, rubbing her forehead with a weary hand.

“Wait. Do you feel that?” murmured Hawke uneasily.

“Shades. Get ready for a fight,” warned Anders, as he took his staff out of its sling and cast a barrier.

At this, Hawke glanced at Fenris, who now looked more irritated than Anders on a bad day.

“It’s all right,” she said, moving to place a hand on his shoulder. “This is old hat for us.”

Fenris jerked away from her extended hand like it could burn him. Hawke flushed, embarrassed, but there was little time for awkwardness---they were surrounded by shades, the air in the room blackened and swirling.

Aveline took point, standing in front of the others, both sword and shield held aloft. Hawke was close behind, ignoring the longbow on her back and whipping out her daggers from their hidden sheaths. Anders stood in the relative middle, casting barriers and healing as needed (and lashing out with fireballs when necessary), and, finally, Varric covered the exit, calling down a hail of arrows with Bianca. Or perhaps Bianca did it herself.

Hawke half expected Fenris to hang back---he had seemed pretty spooked (the shades?)---but as she lodged her blades in the eye of a shade, a white-blue blur threw another from her side. He was an excellent fighter, fast even with a greatsword, and he cleared a path for her to dash in and debilitate the creatures he had stunned. She had to stop herself from watching in wonder (how could any man move so quickly?) and, slowed by her distraction, had to dig her daggers into an oncoming shade’s back and vault herself over it to avoid being flattened.

With a boastful hum, Varric sank an arrow in the last shade’s skull, and the party attempted to catch their breath. Hawke put up her blades and wiped off her brow.

“Is everyone all right?” she huffed, trying not to look at Fenris.

They grunted in confirmation, and she examined the door blocking their path. Locked. Not a problem. She fished around in her braid for a pick and rake, squatted, and began working, ear to the door.

\-------

Mages. It always had to be mages.

And this Anders was no ordinary mage, Fenris was sure. There was something unnatural about the sheen to his eyes, the look on his face as he casted, the unusual rasp to his voice---

“Got it,” Hawke smirked, returning her tools to their hiding spot. She stood up and stretched like a cat, spine crackling. He realized he was staring at her when she glanced up at him and turned pink. He abruptly looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“It doesn’t sound like there are shades in there, I think I hear human voices,” whispered Aveline.  _ Danarius _ , he thought, and charged into the room, the others forgotten. The guardsman (guardswoman? guard?) was right, the hall was packed with slavers. He saw no sign of Danarius, or any mages, for that matter, but one door still remained. He narrowed his eyes, markings at full power, and sprinted into the fray, sensing Aveline and Hawke at his heels.

“Maker take you!” bellowed the former, as the latter slit the throat of an unlucky assailant. Fenris felt the hum of magic behind him, and it fueled his rage as he hacked apart the slavers, not caring for finesse. An exploding arrow cleared the few that remained. He was out of patience, and he ran for the final door, kicking it open to reveal…

Nothing.

\-------

“Gone.”

Hawke hurried in after Fenris, only to find a room full of treasure. Varric was ecstatic. She began to address the elf, but thought better of it.

“Take what you will, it is yours. I...need some air,” he muttered, stalking out the door.

They had made out quite nicely, with some new padding for Anders’s robes, a rather ridiculous belt for Varric, a finer sword for Aveline, and no small abundance of useless junk.

“Junk is the best part,” said Varric, gleefully. “This is going to get us that much closer to the expedition. I can’t wait to see what the merchants will give us for these,” he beamed, holding up what appeared to be a pair of smallclothes made with gold thread. She snorted and left the others to their gathering, skirting past the occasional disembodied limb.

Eventually, they all made their way out, packs filled with loot. They exited the manor to find Fenris glowering near the entrance, gauntleted arms crossed tightly.

“So you harbor a viper in your midst,” he spat.

Hawke began to speak, confused, but he interrupted her.

“A mage within your ranks. I was a fool not to notice earlier. And I suspect he is more than a mage, no?” he said, glittering eyes fixed on Anders.

There was a brief silence as Hawke searched for the best words to say.

“He’s an abomination,” said Aveline.

Varric put his face in his hands, Hawke coughed, and Anders admitted, “she’s not wrong.”

“Do you realize the danger that you’re in? Mages just can’t say no, they can’t stop themselves from doing anything for more power. He will be your ruin,” Fenris barked, rounding on Hawke.

Her eyes narrowed. “Abomination though he may be, I wouldn’t be alive without Anders. He’s healed me countless times. And, were I not here, you would lack the help you sought,” she said calmly, maintaining eye contact.

Fenris loosened at this. He was silent for a moment, then threw a purse to Hawke.

“This is yours. You have my thanks, and...you may call on me if you find yourself in need. I don’t think I’ll be leaving Kirkwall quite yet.”

She considered this.

“Will you work with mages?”

He glanced toward Anders, then returned to her impassive face.

“I will. But I will be watching.”

She cocked her head, then gave him something of a smile.

“Very well, Fenris. I expect we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

As she walked away, she tossed the purse over her shoulder, and he caught it, puzzled. He gave her a questioning look, and she called, “I don’t take money from my companions.”

At this, Varric whacked her with his bag of treasure, claiming this was a new policy of hers.

She thought she might’ve heard a low chuckle, and dared a final look back, but Fenris was nowhere to be seen.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

With her admittedly busy schedule, it was a fortnight or so before Hawke considered bringing along Fenris on their loosely described “missions”. She was lounging on a bench in Varric’s suite, studying a map and listening to Anders get cheated out of a few silvers by Isabela over a “clean” game of Wicked Grace. Even with her alternative tactics, Isabela was still behind Varric, who had racked up a solid amount of coin. In the opposite corner, Bethany and Merrill were discussing the trials of giant spider attacks: that is, until Merrill was abruptly distracted by a large moth in the rafters, and she attempted to catch it.

“Varric, what do you think about bringing in our glowy associate for some of what we’ve got lined up for this week?”

Varric gave his cards to Bethany (perhaps not the best choice) and sat down on the bench next to Hawke. 

“I assume you aren’t talking about Anders?”

“We might as well have as much glow surrounding us as possible. It’s not like we didn’t stick out before,” she grinned. Varric stroked his chin in consideration.

“I don’t know, Hawke. He doesn’t exactly seem like the most stable guy, and he definitely has a hate-on for at least half of our companions,” he said, gesturing over to Merrill, who had the moth in hand but no idea how to get down.

“Can you really blame him? He’s definitely extreme, and don’t quote me on this, but his perspective might...even out...our overall outlook.” She glanced over at the cheerful blood mage, who had managed to crash down on top of the entire game of Wicked Grace, scattering coins and cards alike. 

“It’s up to you. I trust your judgment, we all do. And with Aveline as the new Guard-Captain, we could use some extra muscle around.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, springing up from her seat and exiting the suite, brushing past Isabela (who was surreptitiously stuffing coin in her bodice) and Anders, who was pinching the bridge of his nose and taking deep breaths.

\--------

Fenris was accustomed to being alone. He was not surprised, but maybe a little disappointed when Hawke failed to call on him within the days following their meeting. He felt he owed a debt to her, and wanted to apologize, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the pink of her face when he jumped at her touch or the hardness in her eyes when he growled at her on the porch. Despite the company she kept, Hawke had helped him, when he had no one to turn to. She could have easily refused to assist him once she had found out the truth, or even cut all ties with him after his outburst over the mage. But she had helped him. She wanted his help. She said that she would take him up on his offer.

So why hadn’t she?

His interest waned as the weeks passed, and he cursed himself for being so...involved. He didn’t know this woman, not really, save for that she helped him and she kept poor company and her name was Hawke. He resolved to focus on finding Danarius, and on ensuring Danarius didn’t find him first. Thus, he was surprised to hear a knock on his door.

His markings flared briefly at the unexpected noise and he reached for his sword, leaving behind the bottle of wine he’d been nursing for the past hour. He already had his armor on, always vigilant, always aware that he was being hunted and had to be ready for an attack at any time. Fully expecting a throng of slavers (though why would they knock? An elaborate ruse, perhaps), he held his breath and peered through the peephole to find…

Hawke. 

He blinked for a moment, then realized he should act as she rapped on his door again with a slim fist. She looked almost nervous, crossing her arms and rolling an ankle like it was bothering her. He looked at the sword in his hand, thought about hiding it, realized that Hawke might leave if he didn’t do something, and, without thinking, opened the door.

“Hello,” she said, a small smile crossing her face. She looked at the massive sword in his  hand. “Expecting someone else?”

He started, then quickly put the sword on his back. They stood in silence for a moment, until Hawke cocked her head and asked, “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmured, face flushed. Turnabout was fair play, apparently. He stepped aside as she walked through the door, a dark cloak pulled about her shoulders. He tensely led her to the makeshift living room, then went off to get a chair for her, as there was only one at his table. When he returned, he found her holding her cloak in one hand, stretching toward the ceiling with the other, and once again heard the crackle of her spine. He quickly placed the chair by the table and gestured to it, and she gave him another little smile and sat, folding her cloak in her lap. He sat opposite her, then proferred the bottle.

“Thanks,” she grinned, taking a moderate gulp before setting it back in front of him. He wanted to speak, to apologize, to ask her what took so long, to explain himself, but he waited for her to talk first.

“I was wondering if you were still interested in getting into some trouble with me and my friends,” she said. He raised an eyebrow at that. “It’s the best way to describe it,” she winked. 

“I think I would like that.”

Her smile grew.

“I’ve all sorts of random requests from just about everyone in Kirkwall, and I’m planning an expedition that I will certainly need help with, so you can do whatever strikes your fancy. Come to the Hanged Man tomorrow night and meet everyone. We’ll train sometime later this week so we can work better together.” She paused.

“I know you feel a certain way about mages, and you definitely have the right to feel that way, but I can assure you that all of my companions are good people. Some are rather stupid, but they all have good intentions. You needn’t worry.”

He sat back in his chair, the wine in his lap. She had a strange look on her face, cautious and hopeful. Perhaps she wanted his help more than he had thought.

“You have my sword. As for the mages...I will try and keep an open mind. Cautiously. While keeping a close eye on them.”

She relaxed, and the smile returned. 

“I can’t ask for more than that.”

He took another swig of the wine, then placed it back in front of her. She picked it up by the neck and drank deeply, shifting to sit cross-legged in her chair.

“I quite like this. What is it?”

He smirked. “Aggregio Pavale, a favorite of Danarius’s.” He looked past her into the fire. “He used to have me pour it for his guests. They found my appearance...frightening.”

He didn’t look to see her reaction. He had said too much already---he must have had more wine than he had realized. Then she said the last thing he would expect.

“I don’t find your appearance frightening.”

He looked at her, sitting in the chair with her chin resting on her hand, elbow on his table, eyes on his. It was his turn to cock his head.

“Should I be offended by that?”

She threw back her head and laughed, reaching once again for the bottle.

“No. Not at all. I wouldn’t pick a fight with you unless I had to, but that has more to do with the brutal swordsmanship. I think…” she blushed faintly. She gazed at him intently. “I think it’s nice. Your appearance.”

He needed more wine to process that.

She was quiet for a moment, and he realized that he needed to say something.

“It’s lyrium.”

She sat up straight at that.

“Lyrium? How is that possible?” she wondered.

He extended a forearm and ignited the tangles around it, prompting a look of concern from her.

“Did that hurt? You look like you’re in pain.”

He thought that after so many years he had learned to hide it.

“It is...unpleasant. It’s better when I purposefully trigger it, but surprise or adrenaline can do it, too. And touch.”

She looked up from her focused gaze on his arm. Realization crossed her face, and she clapped her hands to her mouth.

“Oh, Maker. I tried to touch your shoulder. That’s why…” she flushed even darker.

“I am so sorry, Fenris, I had no idea.”

“That was more from surprise than anything  else. You would’ve touched my pauldrons, not my bare skin,” he snorted. She put her face in her hands, mumbling incoherent apologies, until her head darted up.

“Fenris...how did you get these markings?”

“A gift from my old master.”

She exhaled.

He threw the bottle against the wall.

She looked at him, amused. 

“That wasn’t empty, you know. You might’ve let me have another sip.”

“There’s more in the cellar, if you’re really interested.”

“Only if you let  _ me _ throw the next one.”

He grinned.

As he went down to the cellar, she called “do you happen to have anything to write with? We’ve already got our ears peeled for this Danarius, but we could use specifics, and I’ll be damned if my wine-drunk brain forgets anything.”

He stops.

Should he pretend not to hear her?

“Afraid not,” he calls up to her, and misses her reply.

He glances at the seals on the bottle, selects the proper black one, cracks it open, and drinks deep.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Hawke was mildly staggering back to Gamlen’s house (if it could be called that), the skies were lightening and the stars were fading. She hadn’t intended to stay so long, but she was pleased that she did. The guards were coming out on thicker patrols, so she was less worried about encountering any miscreants on her wobbly amble home. Fenris had expressed discomfort with letting her leave by herself, but she assured him that she would be fine. As she passed the Hanged Man, she noticed a clustered group hanging around the nearby alley. With a long-suffering sigh, she pretended to draw her cloak tighter, slipping her daggers out of their sheaths and onto her hips. As predicted, they moved to flank her, so she waited for them to close formation.

“Should you really be out at this hour, serah?”

“You might meet someone who ain’t as nice as us.”

“It’s better if we get your stuff, keep it from going to them lowlifes.”

She gave them her most dazzling smile.

“Well, when you put it that way…” she mused, glancing at the outstretched hands and slipping one of hers into her pocket, 

“...how can I refuse?”

And she closed her eyes and threw down a smoke bomb.

Everything happened rather quickly after that.

She reached for the largest one’s meaty arm and, dragging him down to her, slit his throat to the bone, blood noisily splattering on the pavement. There were only five, and that one really counted as more than one. Hearing angry coughing advancing behind her, she thrust one of her daggers backward, sinking it into the shoulder of another thug. By then, the smoke had largely cleared, and she leaped away from the two charging men.

_ Hold on _ , her dizzy brain thought.  _ Five minus  _ _ two--- _

There was a clang and suddenly she was seeing quadruple instead of double.

_ Since when do robbers carry shields? Shouldn’t they stick to offensive weapons? _

She had fallen forward, and a well-armored arm was around her neck, dragging her back. She didn’t try to claw at what was blocking her airway, and used her remaining sense to stab her assailant in the kidney. He didn’t like that much. Two (though it looked like eight now) still remained, and Hawke felt rather sick to her stomach. She backed up into the alley wall, flipping the dagger that wasn’t embedded in the dead thug’s abdomen, and prepared to throw, trying to force her eyes to focus on the blurry shapes before her.

They sank to their knees, then fell to the ground.

Hawke looked at the dagger in her hand, confused.

Then she looked up to see a heavily jeweled, olive-skinned hand in her face.

“Walk of shame, Hawke? I knew I was rubbing off on you!”

Hawke took the proffered hand and was pulled up, looking into Isabela’s beaming face.

“More like walk of stupidity. I forget how much of a lightweight I am,” she groaned. Isabela examined the back of Hawke’s head. She made a face, then linked their arms.

“It just so happens I was on my way to see one of our favorite apostates when I found my damsel in distress,” she said, kicking a corpse out of their way. “I have a little...problem he’s helping me with. Dockworkers these days,” she sniffed.

“Bela, that may be one of your best ideas yet,” Hawke sighed. “Hopefully he can do that hangover thing, too.” Together they trudged to Darktown, Hawke leaning heavily on Isabela, who laughed and held her hair every time she had to stop and vomit.

__

\--------

“Sweet Maker, what have the two of you been doing?”

“Making poor decisions, mostly,” winced Hawke, as Isabela helped her to a cot. The clinic was empty save for Anders, who had been scribbling furiously when they entered. His manifesto, no doubt. “Did you know Lowtown thugs are using shields now?” He snorted.

“Can you blame them when they pick on people like you?” He went around Isabela to where Hawke sat, swinging her legs feebly. “This is nasty. How many times must I beg you to stop picking fights when you’re drunk?”

“At least once more, it seems.” He dabbed at her scalp with a wet rag, then moved his hand to gently cover the wound. With a slight green glow and a feeling like her skull was dipped in warm water, the flesh knit together and the pain dulled to nothing. “That should take care of the hangover, too,” he murmured, a scolding look on his face. Hawke laid down on the cot and exhaled, relief washing over her.

“Anders, what would I do without you?”

“Die drunk in a ditch, probably,” he answered, face softening. “And I assume you need the usual, Isabela?”

“You really are a mage. Did Justice figure that one out?” Isabela cackled. Anders rolled his eyes and started to make her a potion. “I almost forgot to ask, Hawke---what sins did you commit tonight?” asked Isabela with a wink, climbing to sit cross-legged on Hawke’s cot. Hawke stretched her legs into Isabela’s lap.

“Nothing too sordid, I assure you. I was checking to see whether the elf we helped a while back was still interested in joining our misadventures,” she said. Anders looked up.

“The one who called me a viper? Oh, I can’t wait to see him again,” he scoffed. Hawke was quiet for a moment.

“He’s undergone some horrible things, Anders. I’m not sure you would disagree with him, were you in his position.”

Anders huffed as he capped and shook the bottle of potion. “I hardly think I could ever write off all mages, especially with the adversity---” Hawke held up her hand.

“I’m not saying he’s right, but if you want to change his mind, you’re going to have to be the example that all mages aren’t like the ones he’s known.” She rubbed her temples. “We’ve got to double down on ensuring Merrill has stopped using blood magic.” Anders sighed his approval, taking the potion to Isabela, who threw it back like a shot. 

“That’s not really how you’re supposed to--” he began to say, until Isabela threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. 

“You make me burn in all the right ways, kitten,” she purred.

Hawke and Anders both groaned.

As Isabela sauntered out (no doubt to participate in activities that would make her need another potion), Hawke sat up on the cot, bringing herself face to face with Anders. He had an odd look on his face, like he wanted to say something he shouldn’t. He slipped behind her and took out her ruined plait, combing it out with his fingers and braiding it neatly. She leaned back into his touch. He knew her weakness. 

“Thank you,” she said, with a half grin. He patted her on the head and began putting out the lamps in the clinic, as the sun had risen.

“Hawke,” he started.

“What is it?”

“He hasn’t changed your mind, has he? You don’t believe that all mages are the same?” She went over and helped him put out the rest of the lamps. “Anders, you’re hardly a Tevinter magister. You’re one of my best friends. And we both know that there are evil mages out there, but there are just as many good ones. Like you.” She took his hands in hers. “Fenris isn’t going to make you into something you’re not. I really think we can help him---and he can definitely help us.”

“All right,” he said.

“We’re training this week, maybe tomorrow---oh shit---today,” she groaned, looking up through the holes in the ceiling to the sky. “You’ll be there?”

“Only if you’re buying.”

“I’m sure I can get Varric to. Ugh, don’t let me have anymore tonight. No, this week. Maybe ever.”

He hugged her and she left with a light wave. He sighed, then began preparing another potion for Isabela. He’d definitely need it.


	5. Chapter 5

The Hanged Man wasn’t hard to find. The decor was something of a giveaway. Fenris cautiously ventured inside, weaving his way through increasingly drunk patrons and the barmaids they were harassing. He was about to ask the bartender which suite he was looking for, but then he felt a light tap on his pauldron. He turned around, already knowing who it was. She looked up at him, face light pink.

“Was that ok? Did it hurt? I’ve been trying to get your attention, but it’s so loud in here, I can’t even hear myself,” she called. She held the offending hand gingerly, like she wanted to scold it.

“You did no harm. I knew it was you.”

“Good,” she shouted, hand pressed to her temple. “Follow me.” As she led him to the room, she kept glancing back at him, as though she was afraid he would lose her. Impulsively, he grabbed her hand. She stiffened in surprise. He immediately regretted it. He should have asked, should have gotten permission before touching her. He went to pull his hand back, but then he saw her face. Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her mouth turned up.

She was pleased. Before Fenris could process this, she gave his hand a light squeeze, and pulled him along with her to Varric’s room. She was wearing only an archer’s glove on her hand, and he wondered if his gauntlets were uncomfortable to hold. She flung open the door to an array of cheers. There was a very strange assortment of people inside. His hand slipped from hers, though not before he caught a sharp glance from the abomination.

“Everyone, this is Fenris,” Hawke said with a grin. “Fenris, you already know Varric and Anders.” The latter crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, while the former did a dramatic salute. “Over here we have Isabela, Merrill, and my sister Bethany.” Two of the women had staves on their backs---the other had an impossible amount of piercings. He looked at Bethany, the girl Hawke had called her sister. She was taller than Hawke, with dark hair cropped to her scalp, and she had pale blue eyes. They didn’t look much alike, but enough to where he would guess they were related. 

“Unfortunately, Aveline is busy ruining the lives of guardsmen and lawbreakers alike, and won’t be here until later,” said Hawke with a roll of her dark eyes. “It’s likely for the best, though. Never train with Aveline first. I’m still sore from last time and it’s been weeks…”

She, Varric, and Isabela set to moving the tables and chairs to one side of the room, and he found himself in conversation with Bethany and Merrill.

“We’re terribly pleased to meet you,” chirped Merrill happily.

“My sister has told me about you, it’s good to put a face to the name.” This surprised Fenris. He shifted uncomfortably as he fished for something to say.

“Only good things, I hope.”

She smiled. “Only good things. We’re glad to have you.” 

Finished with their task, Hawke and Isabela joined them, while Varric dragged a large bag to the center of the room.

Training weapons,” Hawke explained, and pulled them out. There were daggers and swords of various sizes, maces, axes, and warhammers. “Most of them are dulled steel, but we also have wooden ones, for those who don’t understand that we are  _ training _ ,” she glared at Isabela. Isabela gave her an innocent look. 

“Kitten, I can’t help it, my survival instincts kick in…”

“More like your competitive cheating spirit kicks in,” Varric stage whispered. Fenris selected a greatsword with decent balance. The edges were blunted and dull, but he knew he could still do some damage with it. Isabela chose curved wooden daggers, and Hawke selected longer, straight daggers. Varric took out a mace. Merrill sifted through the weapons to find a wooden longsword and shield. 

“Aveline’s favorites,” she sang. The mages all had only their staves with them. Fenris stiffened at the sight of them.

“We only do melee training in here,” Hawke said, looking up at him reassuringly. “When we do train with magic, we do it out on the Wounded Coast. They’re just here to analyze our strengths to see how they can best work with us, and to heal us when we knock heads too hard,” she said with a wink to the abomination. “Anders likes to spar with just his staff against us sometimes because he’s a crazy person, and Bethany joins in now and again, but we don’t want to light the Hanged Man on fire. Though it might help sanitize it.” She dodged an elbow jab from Varric.

There was a loud knock on the door. Isabela danced over to answer it, then gleefully announced, “Lady Man-Hands has arrived!” She moved aside to reveal Aveline, who let out a deep sigh. 

“Sorry I’m late. Someone” her eyes narrowed on Isabela “messed with the patrol schedule. I’ve been sorting it out since lunch.”

Isabela batted her eyelashes.

Aveline got her sword and shield from Merrill, giving it a good swing. “All right, then,” she said with a devious look. “Who’s starting?”

“Not you,” blurted Hawke, Isabela, Anders, and Varric in unison. Bethany and Merrill had already retired to watch from the corner of the room, giggling.

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Anders, poorly veiling a hostile look to Fenris.

“Anders, I’ll need you at your best if Isabela is going to throw a table at me again. Or me at the table,” said Hawke. “I’ll start. Then Bela and Aveline, and we can go from there. We mere  mortals should break between, so maybe Bela and Aveline, Fenris and Aveline, and so on.”

“I won’t be fighting Varric?” Fenris said, half-smiling.

“I only fight Isabela---and only if she’s beaten me at Wicked Grace recently,” Varric said darkly, patting the mace with his hand.

“Do you see the hostility?” pouted Isabela. They dispersed to the edges of the room with Bethany and Merrill, leaving him and Hawke alone in the center. Hawke twirled her daggers in her hands and got into her aggressive stance. He felt nervous about fighting her---he had his full armor on and she seemed to be only wearing her leathers. She picked up on his discomfort.

“Don’t worry. I’ll try and go easy on you,” she said with a wink and a grin. He found himself snorting, adjusting his grip on the greatsword.

“Aaaaaaand….go!” called Varric, who was writing suspiciously on a notepad. Hawke held her daggers in an X in front of her face. Interesting. She was waiting for him to take the first strike. He took a deep breath and brought down his sword, trying to be less forceful with his blows to avoid hurting her. 

But she wasn’t there.

He turned in surprise to find her behind him, blades coming to hit him on both sides of his ribs. He struck again, this time from reflex, nothing held back. But once again, she was gone, having rolled under him before the blade had come down. She smiled at him almost playfully, panting. He narrowed his eyes and brought the blade around him with a spin, hitting her before she could get out of the way. She hit the floor with a wheeze, then  _ rolled _ backwards and onto her  feet, leaping towards him with blades parallel. He tried to get his greatsword up in time, but she flung herself at him and caught him on the neck, taking him to the ground on top of her. He was on his back on her torso, with a dagger on either side of his throat.

“Yield yet?” she huffed, face flushed and sweaty. He jumped to his feet, her still clinging onto him like he knew she would, and he pulled her over his back by the wrists and threw her to the ground, straddling her with the blade to her pale throat. She had dropped one of her daggers when he took her wrist, but used the other one to strike his liver. He coughed, snatched the blade out of her hand, and threw it, still managing to stay on top of her despite her best efforts to throw him.

“You first,” he murmured, face inches from hers. She relaxed with a sigh.

“I know when I’m beat.”

The group erupted into cheers and applause. Fenris rolled off of Hawke to lay on his back beside her and catch her breath. She beamed at him, blood running from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m glad I’ll be having you on  _ my _ side,” she chuckled. He frowned at her wound. “No need to get moody, Anders will fix me right up,” she said with a laugh and a cough. She sat up and Anders got down on his knees next to her. He dabbed at the blood with a rag and put his hand on her arm, scanning her for injuries.

“Damn. Two broken ribs and a concussion,” he sighed, then took her head in his hands and healed her.

“Mmm, much better,” she breathed with a stretch. “Your turn, Fenris. I know I broke  _ something _ ,” she said, propping her head on her hands. She nodded to the abomination, who came  over to him. He did not touch him: he held his hands at least a foot from Fenris as he examined him.

“Concussion and broken collarbone,” he decided. He quickly healed Fenris, still being careful not to touch him, and perhaps being less gentle than he was with Hawke. Fenris grunted his thanks, not breaking eye contact. Anders pulled Hawke to her feet as Fenris reached his.

“Thoughts, everyone?”

Isabela and Anders hounded Hawke about leaving her right flank open (“you always do it, no matter how many times we tell you not to”), Aveline praised Fenris on the speed with which he attacked, Varric dabbed an imaginary tear from his eye and said they both did beautifully, and Bethany taught Fenris all of Hawke’s tells. Merrill had fallen asleep at some point during the fight, and remained curled in the corner, snoring audibly. Overall, they gave it an 8.6, the second highest score ever received (once Aveline had used the chandelier to hit Isabela).

As the others prepared for their rounds, he took his seat next to Varric. Hawke, as he’d maybe been hoping, plopped down on his other side, coloring returned to normal.

“You feeling all right? Did Anders miss anything?” she asked, her eyes serious.

“I am merely surprised,” he said, eyebrow raising as he looked down at her.

“How so?”

“You are not a mage, and yet you manage to disappear,” he smiled, unable to keep a straight face. She relaxed and chuckled quietly, leaning her head back against the wall.

“You should see me when I use my bombs. How do you move so quickly with that greatsword? It weighs almost as much as I do.”

“I suppose we all have our talents,” he said with a crooked grin. They watched as Isabela and Aveline circled each other, both grinning like wolves, waiting for Varric’s unceremonial call. At some point, Hawke’s side became lined up with his. He didn’t know if he had moved or she had, though he knew he was definitely leaning on her a little, as she was on him. His bare skin only touched her leathers, but he felt warm in the drafty suite, and he felt her laugh in his ribs like it had been himself. Her hair brushed the side of his face when she turned to whisper some joke or anecdote to him as they saw Isabela break a chair over Aveline’s head, and though it made his face buzz, he stayed as still as possible as he listened.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Motherf---”_

“Language, darling,” scolded Anders, as he pulled another piece of the shattered spear from Hawke’s thigh. Bethany sat beside her, stroking her hair and hiding a smile behind her other hand. Poorly.

“So FUCKING help me, Anders, if you don’t shut up and get that out, I’m going to rip it out myself and jam it up your---”

“Awful lot of Qunari on the coast today,” quipped Varric, who was playing diamondback with Aveline.

“Don’t I know it,” she replied, glancing at her unimpressive hand. “I don’t know if we should be grateful or worried that the Tal-Vashoth keep growing in numbers. At least fighting them isn’t a political statement.”

“Oh, I’d be HAPPY to let you know how I feel about the Maker-damned Tal Vashoth and their SHITTY SPEARS---” Hawke growled, as Anders pulled yet another piece from her leg and placed it in a bowl.

“You’re lucky you got here when you did,” he hummed, going for yet another pass over her leg with the elfroot-infused alcohol.

“Luckily for me, Aveline has built her life on galloping around with massive amounts of weight on her back,” Hawke snorted. Aveline inclined her head, forking over more silvers to Varric, who continued to look more smug by the second. “I’ve had my fill of losing today. I’d rather watch you torture some other soul,” she groaned.

“Well, Broody? How about it?” asked Varric with his most benevolent smile. Hawke stopped swearing for the time being and turned her head to look at Fenris, who had been even more quiet than usual. He was pacing, occasionally stopping to lean on one of the support beams in the suite, but always resumed his small cycle. She couldn’t tell if he was upset or if it was just his typical mood. He caught her eye, stopped pacing, and walked over next to where Bethany was sitting, her hand still dutifully caressing Hawke’s hair.

“Why was it just the two of you out there?” he asked brusquely, looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

“It wasn’t---oh, Maker---supposed to be anything, I was just supposed to be getting stuff for that herbalist, but then Aveline mentioned that the barracks needed more elfroot, so we were going to look for that, too,” she grimaced. “Besides, we literally cleared out that area yesterday, and there were even MORE Qunari there. We realized we were in over our heads and turned tail, but, naturally, I caught a spear to the thigh, so Aveline had to go all mighty woman and carry me over here, to the LEAST SYMPATHETIC HEALER IN---”

“Sticks and stones,” Anders smirked, pulling the last shard out and placing his palm flat over the wound, green waves of energy flowing into it. “Better?” Hawke sighed in confirmation, finally relaxing, her face drenched in sweat. He propped her leg up so he could wrap it with a linen bandage. “However poor my sympathy is, you have to admit I’m good to have around.” Hawke smiled and took his hand. “Obviously.”

“You need to be more careful. You could have been killed,” Fenris said, aggravated now.

“Aveline would never let me die. She still has yet to tell me the specifics of the lineup of next month’s guard patrol,” she said, rolling her eyes with a grin.

“Don’t tempt me,” Aveline snorted.

“Hawke, this is serious,” growled Fenris. Her face dropped all mirth and she gingerly sat up, giving Anders his hand back.

“Fear not, Fenris, I’ll be sure to take at least three of you with me when I go out there again,” she sighed, testing her weight on the injured thigh.

“Well, you aren’t going out there again for at least another two days.” Hawke turned to Anders, horrified.

“What?”

He patted her on the head. “Sorry, but you need to rest up. We don’t want to stress the wound until it’s definitely healed,” he explained. She crossed her arms, a petty expression on her face.

“But you literally worked your magic on it!” she whined. “I’ve already put off going after that templar recruit, Wilmod, for too long! We _have_ to go out there tomorrow.”

“Sister, listen to Anders. And Fenris too, for that matter. You stay here and some of us can go after the recruit. We can function without you, you know,” Bethany said with a wry grin. Hawke lied back on the table, arms still crossed.

“Fine,” she huffed, “but Varric is going and he is telling me EVERY DETAIL.”

“An excellent choice, my lady,” Varric beamed. “Believe me, it’ll be much more interesting than actually coming along.”

\-----------

Late that night, Fenris heard a knock at the door. Wary, he put his sword on his back and silently walked to the foyer. Peering through the peephole, he found what he’d somewhat expected---Hawke, giving him a cheery wave and heavily leaning on the doorframe. He gave an exasperated sigh, then opened the door.

“And what, exactly, are you doing here?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow at her.

She batted her eyelashes. “Visiting a friend?”

“It’s after midnight.”

Surprised, she looked at the sky and frowned. “I meant to get here earlier, but apparently I’m a lot slower when I hobble,” she sighed, still putting her weight on the frame. Suddenly, she stiffened, blushing. “Is this a bad time?”

“Hardly,” he said, feeling a blush creep onto his own cheeks. Why was he blushing? He had no reason to blush. “Come in,” he said, inclining his head toward the house. 

“I hope I haven’t missed broody wine time,” she joked, gently limping inside. He awkwardly held out his arm to her, and she wrapped her arm around his neck, so he gently put his around her waist. Yep. He was definitely blushing. Together they slowly climbed the stairs, Hawke moving more quickly than he would have expected. She was still fairly fast, even with a bum leg. He lowered her down to the couch, and took the chair opposite her, crossing his arms. She curled up in her seat cautiously, careful not to bother her leg too much. Then, she took off her pack, rummaging through it for something.

“Well, I know you’re upset with me for being stupid, which is valid, and then I remembered that there’s something I’ve been meaning to give to you for a while,” she explained, somehow managing to plunge her whole arm inside the bag. Finally, with a relieved huff, she whipped out her quarry and showed it to him.

It was a book.

For a long time, Fenris was speechless. Hawke awkwardly waited for a response, her smile growing more nervous as time passed.

“It’s...a book,” he managed.

“Yes!!! _The Book of Shartan_ ,” Hawke replied, obviously anxious.

“Hawke…” he began, uncertain of how to break the news. Her smile became increasingly panicked.

“This is bad, right? You already have it? You already have it and you hate it? You----”

“ _Hawke_ ,” he interjected. “I don’t know how to read.”

Her eyes widened. He felt anger rear up in him.

“Did you really think they teach slaves to read?” he growled, feeling shame and rage curl up within him.

“Fenris, I really wasn’t thinking, I just thought you would be interested, I swear I didn’t mean anything by it,” Hawke said, face paling. “But this isn’t a problem. If you want, I can teach you, or we can never talk about this again, whatever you want.” He looked down at the book, then huffed and stood up, pacing in front of the fireplace.

“I’m not a child, Hawke,” he ground out.

“That’ll just make it easier! Fenris, you’re smart. I know you can do it, and I’d be happy to teach you,” she said quietly, peering up at him. “I want to do this for you.”

“Why?” he questioned, making eye contact with her now.

“Because you’re my friend, Fenris,” Hawke said, voice steady and clear. Her eyes were so dark that he couldn’t distinguish her pupils from her irises, and something about her gaze made his throat tighten.

“I don’t think I know what that is,” he murmured, turning away. Hawke clumsily stood up then, and limped over to his side, carefully taking his hands in hers.

“We’ll figure it out. Together.” As he wrapped his fingers around hers, the markings that snaked around his hands and wrists began to glow, continuing on to his upper arms.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said softly, as the warmth swirled over his skin. The blue light cast over her face as she gently turned their entwined hands.

“It’s beautiful,” Hawke hummed, deep eyes sparkling. He snorted. She cocked her head at him and rolled her eyes, the familiar crooked smile on her face.

“Very well,” Fenris begrudgingly sighed. “I would like to learn.”

“Thank the Maker,” Hawke grinned. “Now I have something to do tomorrow.”


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke sat on top of Varric’s bed, sorting through various books and leaflets of parchment. When it came to literature, Varric had a better selection than the Chantry library, even if his was mostly made up of his own work and erotic romances. Bethany sat at the table, slicing herbs and mixing them with distillants.

“How do you think it went?” asked Bethany, julienning some embrium. Hawke squinted out the window at the setting sun.

“Well, either they all died, or they’ll be back soon to tell us.”

“You’re awful.”

“Speak of the devil,” Hawke smirked as Varric walked through the door, trailed by Fenris, Anders, and Aveline. And Bianca.

“I know you’re dying to hear the details, but I am going to die of thirst, so we’ll have to wait for Norah to appear with our ales,” sighed Varric dramatically.

“Is everyone all right? Any scorch marks?” quipped Hawke, eyes sliding to Fenris.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” replied Aveline. 

“How’s our invalid?” purred Anders, tossing Hawke a health potion.

“Walking almost perfectly, thanks to my favorite healer,” she winked, catching the potion and downing it. Bethany frowned, folding her arms.

“Favorite? What about me?”

“You’ve set me on fire four times!”

“Half of those were when we were children!”

“One was last week!”

“If you two are quite finished,” groaned Aveline, rolling her eyes and settling down in a chair next to Bethany. Anders followed suit, prompting Hawke to begrudgingly get up from her perch on the bed and fill the seat next to him. Fenris silently slid into the chair on Hawke’s other side, and she felt goosebumps on her arms where he had brushed her with his. Varric was leaning his head out the door, waiting for Norah like a dog for water.

“No scrapes?” murmured Hawke to Fenris.

“Not on our end,” he replied, eyes glimmering with a hint of a smile. “Unless you count Aveline bruising her hand on someone’s skull. It’s been healed.”

“I’m glad you’re ok,” Hawke sighed. “You all. All of you. Are ok.”

Luckily, before Fenris could respond to the monstrosity that had just exited her mouth, Varric set down a tray of beverages on the table with a loud clang.

“All right, we’ve got four ales, one wine for Blondie, and some mildly suspicious tea for the eldest Hawke,” Varric announced. They all took their drinks and sat patiently, waiting for him to begin.

“Now then,” he began, having drained his ale already. “Our trip to the coast. There was already an air of unrest in the atmosphere, as it began thundering as soon as we set foot on the beach----”

“No, it didn’t,” interjected Aveline.

“Well, one could easily  _ imagine  _ the foreboding sound of thunder as we made our way to the troubled recruit. We fought our way through a thick crowd of Tal-Vashoth, dodging their deadly spears, but we soon found ourselves surrounded. Blondie let loose a spectacular mind blast” (Anders raised his glass) “and that gave us the swift upper hand we desperately needed. Finally, surrounded by dozens of bodies---”

“There were 14,” reminded Anders.

“Fourteen MASSIVE bodies, we caught a fleeting glimpse of the boy’s camp. Knowing victory was at hand, we made our way down to it, getting caught in a massive spider nest on the way----”

Hawke looked at Fenris expectantly, her chin resting on her palm.

“That part’s actually true,” he smirked.

“But the fierce arachnids were no match for the swing of Fenris’s sword. As we neared the tiny camp, we discovered that Wilmod was not alone: with him was another templar, who had a sword to the boy’s neck. It turned out to be the Knight-Captain himself. Naturally, we intervened, as the scene was pretty damning, but it turns out he knew what he was talking about. Wilmod growled in an otherworldly tone and began to twist and convulse as he transformed into... an abomination!”

“That’s rather unexpected,” mused Bethany.

“It’s all true,” promised Varric. “Once the abomination and the demons it summoned were vanquished with a few knocks of Aveline’s shield, the fairly traumatized Knight-Captain was more forthcoming, and suggested a lead for us to follow up on. Apparently, all of the troublesome recruits had been to the Rose soon before they disappeared. The “young ladies” (his words, not mine) wouldn’t talk to him, but could anyone ever refuse me?”

“Definitely not,” snorted Hawke. “If you weren’t a dwarf, I’d think you were a mage. Did he really call them “young ladies?”

“His exact words.”

“Ah, naive templars,” Hawke sighed wistfully. “Some things never change.”

“Hardly,” scoffed Anders. “Naive or no, the templars certainly aren’t innocent.”

“He saw you using magic,” retorted Aveline. “You don’t seem arrested to me.”

“Well, this is interesting,” said Hawke pensively. “What’s this fellow’s name again? Maybe he’ll be more help than what we’re used to from templars.”

“Cullen,” supplied Varric. “Fereldan, by the sound of it.”

“Even better,” grinned Bethany.

“So what’s the plan, Hawke?” asked Anders. Hawke swirled the tea around in her glass.

“Sounds like we’re headed to the Rose tomorrow. Lucky us. Fear not, Aveline, you’re not coming,” she said, stifling a chuckle at Aveline’s disgusted face. “How about the rest of you?”

“As much as I regret not getting to go to the brothel, I’ve got my work cut out for me at the clinic,” lamented Anders.

“You know I’m coming, Hawke,” said Varric airily.

“I’ll be there. This should be...interesting,” hummed Fenris.

“I’ll come, and I won’t tell Mother if you won’t,” Bethany conceded.

“Very well, lads and ladies,” beamed Hawke, leaning back in her chair. “Let’s interrogate some whores.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Shit,” muttered Hawke.

“What?” asked Fenris, feeling suddenly nervous. Hawke had been watching him copy down the letters she wrote onto a separate piece of parchment. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, no, you’re doing great, Fenris. A little too great. I think your handwriting is already better than mine,” she said with a frown. He couldn’t help but laugh quietly at that. “You can’t tell yet, but my handwriting is atrocious. I should have made Varric do it,” she groaned.

“I prefer it this way,” he replied, earning himself a crooked smile from her. He continued to copy the letters, most of which he recognized by now. “Who taught you to do this?”

“My father,” she said with a grimace. “Using the Chant of Light exclusively. If I ever read it again, it’ll be too soon.”

“What was your preference?” he asked, curious.

“Well, Lothering’s only real source of books was the Chantry, and, as you could have guessed, it only had religious texts. The Chant, different versions of the Chant, different writings on the Chant, and so on. It wasn’t long before I had read all of them, and I was no more satisfied than before, but after a few years, I found a new source for books.”

“Why do I get the feeling this story involves theft on some level?” he teased.

“It’s not theft if you give it back!” she insisted, turning a little pinker than she was previously.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he answered, still printing letters, though he was becoming more and more distracted. She let out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, there wasn’t ever very much to do in Lothering, other than farm and be miserable, so I spent a lot of time sneaking around and watching people. Which sounds more sinister than it was. The only regular visitors were some templars in training, who split their time between Lothering for tactical practice and the Circle for hands-on experience. I knew the Circles had huge libraries, so I hoped at least one of the recruits had some interest in reading beyond the Chant, which was something of a long shot---but after a lot of surveillance, I found one,” she continued. “He kept a book in his knapsack by his bedroll while he slept. All the recruits rested on the Chantry floor, which was unlucky for them, but I happened to know about a certain window that wouldn’t lock properly. So, I waited for all 20 of them to fall asleep, then crept in and slipped it out of his bag. I went behind my house and read it by lantern until an hour before the lay sisters were due to wake up, and then I put it back where I found it. Mild theft, perhaps.”

“Did you ever confess?”

“Not willingly. This continued for several months, and he would bring a different book every time he came back, which was thrilling for me. One night (or very early morning), I was sliding the book back into his knapsack when he opened his eyes and asked me if I’d enjoyed it. I shrieked like a terror, woke everyone in the Chantry up, and broke the window in my hurry to escape,” she grinned crookedly. He had completely forgotten his practice, pen resting in his idle hand.

“I thought that was the end of my reading, but when the templars came back the next time, he sought me out during the daylight. He found me hiding from him on my roof. I thought for sure he was going to report me, yet he offered me the book I hadn’t finished. I reluctantly climbed down and took it, and he started talking. He was very shy, very polite, especially since he had literally caught me stealing from him. I finished the book and returned it, and he promised he’d be back with another. And he was.” She had a soft look on her face as she told the story. It gave him a tight feeling in his chest.

"What about Bethany?"

"What about her?"

"He was a Templar..."

“Oh. Lothering, and Ferelden for that matter, was pretty lenient with mages. My father was also one, not just Bethany, but the templars only took people to the Circle if they had been arrested for using their magic against people,” she explained. “Stanton knew Bethany was a mage, but the only person she had ever set on fire was me, and she says it was accidental,” Hawke said with a roll of her eyes. He made a face.

“Stanton?”

“I never said Fereldans chose sensible names. My brother’s name was Carver, you know,” she said. Her face became quietly saddened.

“You’ve never talked about him before,” Fenris said gently.

“Bethany was closer to him; they were twins, after all.” She sighed. “He was a pain, he was stubborn, he was a brother. He died when we tried to escape Lothering. The darkspawn.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, instinctively resting his free hand on hers. Should he have done that? Was he crossing a line? Now his hand was glowing and blood was rushing to his ears and----

“Thank you, Fenris,” she said, flipping her hand under his and squeezing. For a moment they were silent, and he felt her heartbeat on his bare hand. “Maker, we’re off topic,” she exclaimed, remembering the lessons. “Damn it, you’re too good at this already. I need to step up.” She held up the pages of perfectly copied writing. “All right, let’s take what you know about letters and apply it. We’re going to write your name.”

In four minutes, he could name and write every letter, and had no problem writing or spelling his name. He sat back and smiled as she beamed at him.

“I think you’ll be teaching me pretty soon. You’re picking this up much faster than I had planned, and I had made allowances for how smart you are already. Is there anything else you want to learn to write tonight?” she inquired. He paused.

“How do you spell Hawke?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear as a soft smile crept across her face.


	9. Chapter 9

“Well, shit,” frowned Hawke, standing over Idunna’s body. “Looks like Meredith may not be off her rocker after all.”

“Only about this,” said Anders, pinching the bridge of his nose and returning his staff to its sling. “Good thing you brought me along.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Hawke, rubbing at her throat where she had been holding her blade to it only moments before. She, Fenris, and Anders watched Isabela root through the pockets of the corpse.

“Well, our girl was certainly a blood mage, and perhaps not the only one,” Isabela purred, holding up a sinister looking book and rising. “Damn! I got blood on my boots.”

“You can go back to Jethann and tell him I sent you as restitution,” snorted Hawke.

“Don’t mind if I do,” winked Isabela, slinking out of the room. Hawke put her hands on her hips and stretched her spine, listening to the crackle.

“Looks like we need to pick up Varric and head to the coast.”

 

 

“Have I ever mentioned how much I miss the Fereldan climate?” groused Anders. Hawke sighed wistfully.

“Ah, to go outside and not feel my skin roasting on my bones,” she said, squinting into the unforgiving sun.

“Have I ever mentioned how whiny humans are?” groaned Varric, rolling his eyes. The corner of Fenris’s mouth turned up.

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question,” deadpanned Anders. Hawke turned her head and stopped, outstretching her arms on either side.

“Something’s not right,” she warned quietly. “Those are a lot of fresh footprints, but they aren’t large enough to be Qunari, ” she pointed. “And there are plenty of rocks ahead for an ambush. Stay on your guard.” She reached behind and slipped her daggers out of their sheaths on her back.

“Are we thinking blood mages? This is a little far from their hideout,” pointed out Varric.

“I sure as hell hope not. More likely to be bandits by their numbers,” she replied. Luckily, they didn’t have to speculate long, as a single soldier appeared as they rounded the corner.

“Halt! You are in possession of stolen property.”

Hawke took a look at his kite shield and came to an unpleasant conclusion.

“I believe you are mistaken, sir,” she smiled sweetly as her eyes iced over. The soldier gestured as 15 men came out from behind the rocky parts of the cliff.

“Hand over the slave and there will be no trouble.” She could tell without looking that Fenris was already glowing with rage, and all of her companions were gripping their weapons.

“We have no slaves here,” she insisted, adrenaline already flowing as her eyes narrowed. At least 10 more soldiers joined the rest.

“This is your last chance. Hand the elf over or there will be violence.”

Hawke cocked her head and twirled her daggers.

“I choose violence.”

With that, Anders let loose a mind blast, knocking the surrounding soldiers to the ground. Hawke disappeared, only able to be seen in glimpses as she slit the throats of the downed men. Varric began picking off the archers with Bianca, and Fenris went after the leader, preparing a mighty blow.

“I am not a slave.”

As Anders cast barriers and hexes, Varric found higher ground, standing on the broken bodies of the archers Bianca had killed. Noticing Fenris was the most surrounded, Hawke called out, then threw a tar bomb just as he dodged away. She heard a slaver approaching her from behind, and spun around with daggers out to find him already sliced in half by Fenris’s greatsword, the elf now back to back with her. The back of her head brushed between his shoulder blades, and they were both breathing heavily.

“Nice one,” she gasped. “Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he smirked, baring his blade for the oncoming wave. Less than 10 slavers remained. Child’s play.

“Help the mage, please,” called Anders, who was hitting attackers with his staff. Hawke dove into the fray, slitting hamstrings and stabbing shoulders. Fenris was right behind her, easily slicing through his adversaries. Varric had rejoined them and was swatting slavers with Bianca, while employing the occasional kick.

When only one remained, Hawke pounced, knocking him to the ground. She pinned him to the dirt with a dagger through the wrist.

“Where is Danarius?” she demanded.

The man was too busy sobbing to answer the question.

“Allow me,” said Fenris, brandishing a glowing gauntleted hand. Hawke inclined her head and sat back, dagger still embedded in the slaver’s wrist.

“Minrathous!!! He’s still in Minrathous!!” the thug squealed.

“What’s his next move?” Fenris snarled, quiet but all the more menacing for it.

“He’s sending another group, and---oh, Maker, please,” he cried, trying to pull at the dagger in his wrist with his other hand. Hawke sighed, pushed his arm down, and put her other blade through the intact wrist.

“Another group and whom?” she growled.

“Hadriana! He’s sending Hadriana!” Fenris straightened, paling slightly. “Please, please let me live,” the slaver begged.

“You’ve been dead since you attacked us,” she replied, and Fenris ripped his heart from his chest and threw it, rising to pace on the sand. Anders began to heal the shallow cut on Varric’s forehead, and Hawke cleaned her blades on her trousers as she followed Fenris.

“Are you ok?” He stopped and turned around.

“What do you think?” he asked, head cocked.

“A poor question,” she conceded. “Who is Hadriana?”

“Another magister, an apprentice. A torment,” he spat.”I’ve been wanting to kill her for a long time.”

“She won’t be any match for us,” she reassured him. He continued to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists, the lyrium twined around him still slightly glowing. His brow was furrowed into knots, and she had the strange urge to reach up and massage them out.

“It’s going to be all right. We can handle anything he throws at us,” she said, looking up at him and placing her hands on his shoulders. He didn’t meet her eyes. “Fenris,” she murmured. “Look at me. I promise I won’t let them have you.” He slowly raised his gaze, green eyes into brown.

“I know that.”

“Then what’s troubling you?”

“I...dislike that you are put in danger by this situation,” he growled.

“I’m sorry, what?” said Hawke incredulously, hands going to her hips. “You literally sought my help for this very reason.”

“That was before I---we--”

“Do you think I’m incapable of handling myself, Fenris?” she asked, an eyebrow raising higher with every word. He sighed.

“I only meant that---”

“Even if I couldn’t handle myself, which I _very_ much can, I have Varric, I have Anders, I have you,” she said sternly. “I want to be in this situation. You can’t keep me out of it. And that goes for our friends, too,” she said, crossing her arms. He looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read.

“Hawke…” Fenris began. She gently cocked her head and waited.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re adept. I…” he reached up carefully with a gauntleted hand. She held her breath.

“I only meant to say that if you were to come to harm because of me, I would regret it. I appreciate your help more than I can say.” He lightly touched the side of her face, which grew warmer by the second. What was happening to her? She could feel her heart beating rapidly in her throat, and she realized she still wasn’t breathing. The look in his eyes made her chest tight. She leaned into his touch almost imperceptibly.

“You needn’t worry,” she breathed. “It’s my pleasure.” He started to say something.

“Hawke, any scratches?” barked Anders abruptly, marching up to her with a slight glare on his face. Fenris quickly dropped his hand and inclined his head, walking over to where Varric sat scratching at a bandage.

“I...no,” she said, flustered, placing her hands in his outstretched palms. “I mean, I think I went too hard on my knees, but they aren’t bothering me much.”

“Let me see,” he instructed, moving them both to a seated position and lightly brushing his hands over her kneecaps, feeling for swelling. She felt oddly light, and found it hard to focus on his questions, raising a hand to her cheek where it felt unusually warm. He patted her knees and declared her good to go, rising and offering her his hand. She accepted, and he helped her up.

“Are you guys all right?” she asked Fenris and Varric, still lightly pink. They both nodded the affirmative.

“Right,” she announced, clearing her throat. “Let’s catch us some blood mages.”


	10. Chapter 10

“All right, kids,” announced Varric. “Tomorrow’s the day. We need to sort out the expedition party,” he said, raising a glass. He nodded to Hawke as she clinked her glass to his.

“First off, who does  _ not _ want to go?” Hawke asked.

“There are no whores underground…” sniffed Isabela. Hawke rolled her eyes.

“The captain of the guard can hardly leave for Maker knows how long,” Aveline reasoned, draining her drink. “Although it’d certainly be an experience.”

Merrill was not listening, as she had already fallen asleep, snoring on Isabela’s shoulder.

“I’d rather avoid the sodding Deep Roads as much as possible, but I don’t like the idea of you going without me,” confessed Anders. Fenris let out a scoff.

“Anders, if you wouldn’t hate me forever, having you along would grant me some peace of mind,” Hawke said. “I can handle small wounds, but if Varric were to have his head ripped off by an ogre or some shit, I’d be at a loss.” Anders laughed.

“I could never hate you, love. However, if an ogre does rip off Varric’s head, I might also be ill prepared to handle it.”

“Awfully bold of you to assume the ogre would even be able to see me past you dunderheads,” Varric huffed. “All right, that leaves...Daisy, Broody, and Sunshine.”

“I’m  _ apparently _ not allowed to come,” said Bethany with a glare to Hawke’s direction. “Instead, I will be babysitting our mother and putting up with Gamlen, two of my favorite activities.”

“And playing with Sandor,” Hawke supplied. Bethany narrowed her eyes.

“Yes, I forgot I’m also babysitting a dog.”

“Let’s be honest---he’s babysitting you.”

“I guess we should wake up Merrill,” said Anders, peering over at the snoring elf.

“No need,” said Fenris, looking only at Hawke. “I want to come along.” Hawke found herself grinning.

“Perfect,” she said. “We’ll be fully balanced.” Anders seemed less enthused by this news.

“Fair warning,” Varric began. “Most or all of you will be fed up enough with Bartrand to murder him by the second hour of traveling together, but if anyone is going to kill that prick, it’ll be me, so you’ll have to satisfy yourselves by shooting him death glares. Apparently Anders is already practicing his.”

“Try not to get into too much trouble without us,” Hawke said to the others.

“I’d say the same to you, but by now, I know better,” grimaced Aveline.

\----------

“If I hear the phrase ‘nug-humping’ ONE more time…” sighed Anders. Hawke stifled a giggle behind a cough as she followed Bartrand deeper to a site worthy of setting up camp. Darkspawn resistance had been minimal so far, but they had only been underground for around sixteen hours. Although Bartrand was pressed on getting the most out of his hirelings as possible and wanted them to continue on, Varric made the valid point that some of the scouts were a hair’s breadth away from passing out as they walked.

“All right, you nug-humping bastards,” hollered Bartrand. Anders shot Hawke a strained look that had her covering her smile with a hand. “Set a perimeter and schedule watches. We’re  moving again in 8 hours, people!” The crowd dispersed amid noises of exhausted relief. Varric had found an area somewhat apart from the others and laid down his pack, whistling for Hawke and the others to do the same. She trudged over, setting down her backpack with a content sigh. Anders crouched down and started to build up a small fire, as the Deep Roads were so cold in places that Hawke could see her breath in the air. She felt her mouth turn up in a crooked grin as she heard Fenris approaching behind her.

“Are the Deep Roads everything you imagined?” she asked, dramatically fluttering her lashes. He smirked.

“And more.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. I think,” she answered, laughing. Opening her pack, she took out her  bedroll and began to unroll it, Fenris silently doing the same beside her. She felt a little flip in her stomach thinking about how he chose to sleep by her, then chided herself for being ridiculous. What else was he going to do? Snuggle up with Anders? The thought of snuggling had her fighting the heat creeping over her cheeks, and she slid off her gauntlets, absentmindedly rubbing her chilled hands together.

“Cold?” he murmured, and she looked up abruptly, unaware he had been watching.

“Are you not?” she asked incredulously. He shook his head with a wan smile, gently fluttering locks of bright white hair.

“One perk of the lyrium. I don’t get overly warm or cold,” he explained, removing his breastplate and gauntlets. She gave him a jealous pout, and he chuckled, unhooking his pauldrons. She also continued removing her armor, until she was down to just her leathers and stockings. She carefully positioned her daggers just so underneath the bedroll so they’d be in  instant reach, should there be any trouble. Finally, she took out her thin blanket (which allowed more room in her pack than a more substantial one) and shivered.

“Anders, please tell me that fire’s coming along,” she called.

“The thing about fire is you have to have something to burn, sweetling. Patience,” he retorted.

“Here,” Fenris said, holding out his ungauntleted hand. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and placed her palm on his. He covered it with his other hand and looked down, concentrating as a gentle glow crawled up his arms. She gasped as she felt warmth flood her, and clutched at his wrist with her empty hand.

“Sweet Maker, how are you doing that?”

“Another perk,” he rumbled, eyes crinkling in amusement. “I wasn’t sure if it would work. Better?”

“Much,” she breathed. They were so close now, and she could almost feel the warmth of his breath on her face. She realized she was clutching onto him and quickly removed her hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut off your circulation. That was... wow. Did it hurt?” she asked, brow furrowing. He frowned.

“Hawke, I wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want to.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” she replied, eyebrow quirking up. He sighed, reclining on his side beside her.

“It felt odd, but not...unpleasant.”

“Good,” she said softly, filled with relief. “I...thank you,” she managed, silently mourning his warmth as the cold slowly crept back in.

“You are most welcome,” he said, barely above a whisper, eyes locked on hers. There was a noise of victory.

“Fire’s up,” crowed Anders. “Any more complaints can be directed to Varric. This apostate’s going to sleep.”

Hawke rolled onto her bedroll, tucking her blanket under her feet.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“Sleep well.”

“And you.”


	11. Chapter 11

The Deep Roads were hardly the most pleasant area in Thedas, but Fenris wasn’t there for the venue. Hawke and her team were often sent ahead of the rest of the expedition by Bartrand to make sure the way was clear of darkspawn and other nuisances. According to the maps, they were nearly a third of the way to the thaig, and it had already been a week and a half. The temperature was unpredictable, and he and Varric often shared a laugh at the expense of Anders and Hawke, whose human systems were easily thwarted by the extreme heat or cold. Sometimes there would be rocky outcroppings on the side of the walls, and Hawke would ask him for a boost so she could climb up and get a look at what was ahead of them. At first, he refused, thinking it could only lead to injury and perhaps an avalanche, but when Anders offered to try, he grumpily acquiesced. 

“Like this?” he asked, arms held down in a footrest just above his knee.

“Just like that,” she grinned, one hand resting gently on his shoulder (avoiding the sharp spikes) and the other on a protrusion of rock. She stepped gingerly into his hold, then vaulted herself up with his help. Fenris couldn’t help but be impressed as she climbed on top of the shelf of stone, slinking around the corner on all fours in an almost feline fashion. He turned to Varric as if waiting for an explanation.

“Don’t look at me. It’s not like  _ I’ve _ helped her do that before.”

“She’s going to break something, I just know it,” groaned Anders. Almost as quickly as she had left, she was back, starting to scale her way down.

“Bad news,” she panted. “The group up there has an ogre. Horrible amount of stalactites, didn’t have a clear shot at it.”

The others groaned mirthfully in unison as she continued to descend, stretching out her legs to test her reach.

“Here,” called Fenris, holding out his arms. It was Hawke’s turn to be hesitant. She paused, one leg idly swinging.

“Are you sure you can get me? Won’t I impale myself?” He rolled his eyes and unhooked his pauldrons, letting them fall to the ground.

“We don’t have all evening, you know,” he said, once again proffering his arms.

“Whatever you say, Ser Impatient,” she muttered, springing off of the wall. He caught her without a sound, his hands on either side of her ribcage and her arms around his neck, and he could  _ feel _ her heavy breathing, the quick throb of her heart. She rested her forehead on the juncture of his neck and shoulder as she caught her breath, and her soft hair tickled his nose. She  smelled good, like sweat and pine and jasmine, and he involuntarily pulled her a touch closer.  _ Wait _ , he thought, frozen as he felt her breathing slowing under his splayed fingers.

_ He was holding Hawke. _

He jerkily stepped back from her at the realization. Luckily, she had recovered by then, smiling at him and stretching her arms behind her. The whole incident had happened in under a minute.

“Nice catch,” smirked Varric, tossing him his pauldrons. Fenris slowly put them on, dazed, thinking about the beat of Hawke’s heart against the palm of his hand. The others began moving down the hall as he fell slightly behind, Anders finding his way to Hawke’s side.

“Since when can you climb  _ walls _ ?” he asked her, playfully elbowing her in the side.

“Since Isabela dared me to,” Hawke said, a grin in her voice. “She can get quite competitive about it, we’ve been racing…”

“Maybe you should have Broody here catch you every time,” smirked Varric, looking pointedly at Fenris. “It sure cuts down on the descent.”

“Ah, but that’d be putting him in danger,” Hawke reasoned, throwing Fenris a wink over her shoulder. “Bela’s always been a sore loser.”

Eloquent as ever, Fenris could not find the right words to say. He was rescued from his silence, however, by a loud whoop from Anders, indicating they had reached the opposition. He took the sword off of his back and gritted his teeth, his markings crawling with light as he made his way to Hawke’s flank.

\--------

Fenris cursed himself as he prepared his bedroll, meticulously rolling it out until it was perfectly straight. He had behaved like a fool all night, unsure of the storm of feelings he had suffered and avoiding Hawke because of it. He had fought at her back, as always, and she at his, but he failed to return her dazzling grins and clever quips, distancing himself as much as possible off the battlefield. He hoped, against all odds, that she hadn’t noticed, but Hawke had the annoying knack for noticing everything, and he had caught a few confused (and perhaps hurt?) glances. He began to remove his outerwear, starting with his gauntlets, when he spotted her coming his way and pretended to be fascinated with the task at hand.

She set down her pack next to his, like always, and began to empty it. Some of her hair had come free from her normally tight braid, and she huffed when it fell into her eyes, batting it away. Eventually, she became fed up and stopped taking things from her pack, pulling it under herself to perch on it instead. She pulled the tie from her hair and ran her hands through it, disentangling the strands from their ruined pattern. 

“Hey, I meant to ask earlier, are you all right?” she inquired, eyes on the wave of hair she had freed. “I thought you might’ve taken a hit, but you didn’t ask Anders to do anything, so I wasn’t sure,” she continued, fingers nimbly wrapping around chunks of hair, weaving them into a new braid. “If you...Fenris?” She was now making eye contact, head cocked in concern.

“My apologies,” he coughed. “I was...distracted. Rest assured, I am fine, merely tired,” Fenris managed, clearing his throat. She gave him that familiar crooked smile, wrapping the end of the finished braid with the tie.

“Anders does it a lot better than me, but it’s only because I can’t possibly see the back of my head,” said Hawke with a snort. Her face softened, and she put her hand on his arm. Fenris tried not to move. “Let me know if I can help with anything, ok? After all, it’s my fault we’re down here.”

“I will,” he murmured, and she patted him on the shoulder, rising to continue setting up camp.

“Nothing like another toasty night in the Roads,” said Varric airily. Fenris gave him an amused look while Hawke threw a bracer, narrowly missing the dwarf’s head.

“I can see your breath in the air, asshole,” she retorted.

“Apparently you don’t need this to keep you warm,” said Varric, waving the failed projectile in the air. She snatched it back from him with a melodramatic sniff, trying not to smile. Anders was tending the fire, eyes rolling all the while.

“I’d rather sleep and be cold than be slightly warmer but kept up all night,” Hawke groaned, undoing the clasps on her breastplate. “Surely someone of your constitution doesn’t even need that duster to be warm---for all the good it’s doing,” she winked, staring pointedly at his almost bare chest. 

“You’d better not let Bianca hear you,” he warned with a mockingly sinister air. 

“Maker have mercy, you’re right. I sincerely beg her forgiveness,” replied Hawke, falling back onto her bedroll, hands clasped as if in prayer. A low chuckle escaped Fenris.

“Hawke, if you’re really that cold, you can have my mantle,” said Anders, who was apparently satisfied with the fire. Hawke sat up.

“Anders, you’ve got to be as cold as I am, you keep it,” she argued. 

“Unlike you, my dear, I have magic to keep me warm, now that I’m not using it to keep us all alive,” he insisted, coming around the fire to her. He took the mantle from his shoulders and wrapped it around Hawke, kissing her on the forehead. Fenris felt his throat tighten as she gazed up at Anders, thanking him, one corner of her mouth turned up. The abomination returned to his side of the fire, and dimmed the magelights that the party saw each other by. Fenris saw Hawke’s silhouette lie back with a sigh, her figure swallowed by the ridiculous cape.

“Sleep well, Fenris,” he heard her gentle voice call, but he felt too sick to reply.

\--------

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Fenris cracked open an eye to see Hawke’s face above him. He sighed, rising to a seated position and rubbing his eyes.

“What time is it? Why didn’t Varric wake me up sooner?” he asked, realizing that he was the last one to rise.

“You said you were tired last night, so I wanted to make sure you got enough rest,” she explained, voice a little hoarse from sleep. “Feeling better?” He looked her over and was relieved to notice her shoulders were covered only by her leathers.

“Much. You have my thanks,” he said sincerely. She smiled at him in that beaming way and squeezed his shoulder before going over to her pack to put on her outerarmor. Even after she was gone, he felt her touch like a brand. Varric and Anders came over to them, both already prepared for the day.

“Has Sleeping Beauty risen?” Varric asked Hawke, who was lacing up her boots.

“Yes, and in spite of the spectacular snoring you exhibited, he’s actually well-rested.”

“She has a point,” groused Anders, giving Varric a look. 

“It’s not my fault that you humans have such delicate ears,” said the dwarf. “Bartrand says we need to find a route around the blockage, and that Feddic fellow seems to have lost his son, so keep that in mind,” he told Fenris and Hawke. They both finished with their armor quickly, Fenris still outpacing Hawke even with her head start.

“I have more pieces than you do!” she huffed as he tapped his foot on the ground while she hastily fastened her pauldrons. She pulled the laces tight with her teeth and stalked ahead, leading the way for the rest.

 

\--------

“Of all the times to run out of lockpicks,” snarled Varric, kicking the door Bartrand had sealed behind him over an hour ago.

“I’m not even sure that could be picked, Varric,” said Anders, hands feeling the surface for any weak points. Hawke was quickly pacing, thrumming with energy, and Fenris was still for once, leaning against a pillar as he watched her. She stopped for a moment, then came over to him.

“Do you think you could kick it down or something?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at him even though he was slouched by his position. Fenris looked at the door, then at her, a blank expression on his face.

“As flattering as that is, I don’t think an ogre could kick that down,” he pointed out, causing her to frown and cross her arms.

“Damn. I don’t suppose you have any lockpicks?”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Right, right. If only Bela----” She stopped abruptly, then knelt, whipping off her pack and sifting through its contents. He slid to a seated position, giving her a questioning look.

“I had almost forgotten,” she said, smiling dryly, “Isabela gave me a ‘care package’ that probably has some picks in it.” She pulled out a box wrapped in red cloth and cracked it open.

“Look alive, Varric,” she called out, tossing him a lockpick. He gave a hoot of appreciation as Anders clapped.

“If this bastard can be picked, I’ll get it,” growled the dwarf. 

“What else is in there?” asked Fenris, curiosity piqued. 

“Let’s see,” hummed Hawke. “Nine more picks, a bandage...what appears to be an erotic novel,” she grimaced, “completely unnecessary smallclothes,” as she proffered a very small scrap of red lace, “and a canteen,” she finished, with a suspicious glance at the latter. She removed the lid and took a sip, only to nearly choke on a cough. “A canteen of very strong rum,” she croaked, eyes watering. Fenris bit his lip, trying to remain impassive, but of course she noticed.

“Are you laughing at me?” Hawke wheezed, still coughing, and Fenris began to shake with laughter. She gave him a light whack on the chest, which only made it worse, until she also started laughing, still winded.

“All right, this is the only door in THEDAS that can’t be opened with a lockpick,” spat Varric, tossing the pick back into Hawke’s waiting hand. ****

“Here,” she said in a strained voice, “this’ll make you feel better.” Varric took a heavy swig of the rum with a sigh. Hawke frowned pettily at him, making Fenris grit his teeth against the chuckle that threatened him.

“I do feel better. Pissed, but better,” Varric growled. 

“Courtesy of Isabela,” Hawke replied grandly. “I can only imagine these were intended for you, too,” she said, pelting the lace at him.

“Almost my size, but not quite,” the dwarf snorted, dropping to sit down next to her. Anders was still pawing at the door fruitlessly. There was a long pause. “What are we going to do?” asked Varric, face grave.

“We’re going to watch Anders flounder a little bit longer, and then we’re going to get out of here,” Hawke said reassuringly, taking Varric’s gloved hands in hers.

“I heard that,” bit Anders, and the others stifled their laughter.

“We don’t even know where we  _ are _ , let alone how to get back to the surface. So much of the Roads are either caved in or full to shit with darkspawn,” Varric grumbled.

“I suppose it’s a good thing we have a Grey Warden with us and a can-do attitude,” purred Hawke with a twinkle in her eye. “We’ll be fine, old friend, and that’s a promise.”

Anders came over and plopped down next to Varric with a groan.

“The Grey Warden is done floundering for the moment.”

“Perfect timing,” replied Hawke, standing up and immediately pulling Anders with her. She led him by the hand to one of two doors, and Fenris tried to swallow down the strange anger he felt when he saw her slim fingers twined with the abomination’s large ones.

“There’s a  _ lot _ of darkspawn this way,” said Anders, eyes closed in concentration. Hawke dropped his hand and clapped with conviction. 

“Then we go the other way,” she said, like it was as easy as breathing. She pulled up Fenris and Varric, then replaced her pack on her hip.

“Work your magic,” she said to Varric, who already had his hand out for a lockpick. “We can’t kick Bartrand’s ass from here.”

\-----

“So this  _ is  _ the way back to the surface?” panted Hawke, daggers primed and shoulders taut.

“Yes, but only I have the key,” boomed the rock wraith. “Do we have an accord?”

“Sorry. I don’t make deals with demons.”

She flew at the wraith so quickly that Fenris had trouble keeping up, and they hacked at it until its armor was rent and Varric landed a shot at the spirit underneath.

“I still don’t understand how to kill a rock,” said Anders as he ran his palm over the dripping cut on Hawke’s forehead.

“Did you hear it?” she breathed. “This is the way! Who needs a key when you have Varric?”

“Absolutely no one,” crowed the dwarf in celebration. Hawke turned to Fenris and beamed, and he couldn’t help but smile back as he polished the scratches off of his sword. After  a period of recuperation, they pressed onward, and found themselves in a large room supported by four pillars.

“This has got to be the vault,” said Varric excitedly. “I can’t wait to see the look on Bartrand’s face when I find the most valuable thing in here and beat him with it…”

Fenris followed Hawke, who had a strange expression on her face.

“Do you see those rocks?” she asked him. “They almost resemble---”

She fell silent as the giant rock wraith came to life.

“Shit,” sighed Anders.

Hawke whipped out her blades, immediately defensive. Varric took cover behind one of the pillars to shoot safely, and Anders stood behind him, throwing a barrier over Hawke and the occasional flame at the wraith. Fenris was pressed to Hawke’s back, cleaving through the Profane that the massive creature summoned. With a cry of effort, Hawke leaped onto the wraith and pulled against its “arm” with both daggers, ripping the rock from the construct. As a result, she was thrown against a pillar, her prey beginning to vibrate with rage. Fenris dove to her side and pulled her to her feet, putting himself between her and the beast. He was about to pounce, already snarling, when he felt Hawke yank him behind the pillar by the breastplate.

“Anders, cover!” she shouted, and the mage met Varric behind another pillar. The ancient wraith exploded into an energy field of crimson light, frying the remaining Profane and the hem of Anders’s robes. Fenris looked down at Hawke, panting. She was still clutching onto his chest with both hands, dark eyes wide and a little wild. As the red glow began to wane, she let him go, resting her palms on his chest.

“All right,” she said, chest heaving. “Let’s do it again.”

And into the fray she returned, daggers ripping into wraith skin, tugging at the remaining armor. Varric fired at the vulnerability, and Anders and Fenris tackled the seemingly endless waves of resurrected Profane. With another boulder removed, Hawke was knocked back, scrambling backwards to the pillar. Fenris easily wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her behind it just in time, the tail of her braid becoming singed. 

“One or two more, and I’ll have him,” she crackled.

“You’re taking a lot of hits,” Fenris argued. “We should go at the armor together.”

She nodded, breathless. “Be careful,” she warned, preparing to leap. “Guys, take the reinforcements!” 

They heard two calls of assent, and flew as soon as the light faded. Varric hailed a rain of arrows down on the pursuing wraiths while Anders let loose a cone of cold. Hawke clawed her way on top on the construct, leathers sizzling with the contact as she worked at prying off the shoulder. Fenris did the same with the shin, hacking with his greatsword. He ripped it off, an otherworldly howl coming from the giant wraith, and assisted Hawke with the last piece of armor, which broke apart shortly after. Grabbing her hand, he dashed behind the pillar, dragging her along behind him. Once they were safe, the glow starting up again, he put his sword on his back and his hands on his knees, gasping for air. 

“Varric, are you two okay?!” Hawke yelled, bracing herself as the humming grew more intense.

“Traumatized, but that might go away with years of therapy!” was their reply. Hawke sheathed her blades with a choked laugh and tried to catch her breath. The vibrating continued, and Fenris straightened, seeing the pillar begin to crack.

“Run!” he bellowed, snatching Hawke and pushing her ahead of him. She bolted, and he quickly caught up, an arm circling her form while the other lifted to shield their heads from the crumbling rock. He was burning as much lyrium as possible, glowing like a flare, moving as fast as he could as hell came down. There was a crack and suddenly he was pinned to the ground. The last thing he heard was Hawke’s shriek as he lost his grip on her waist and she rolled into the black. 


	12. Chapter 12

Hawke woke to darkness. Groaning, she raised a shaky hand to her throbbing head. It came back slick with wetness.

_ I suppose there’s no chance of this being liquor. _

She slowly sat up, seeing only stars in the pitch.  _ Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. _ She patted around blindly for her pack, finding nothing but shards of rock. Her breathing came fast and shallow, and she put her head between her knees, trying to force herself to calm down. Choking on nothing, she let out a strangled cough, then clapped her hands over her mouth.

_ Maker only knows what could hear me down here.  _ She swallowed roughly, coiling her fingers into her hair.  _ Think. Think your way out of this. _

_ What can you see? _ She blinked.  _ Nothing. _ She waved her hand in front of her face out of desperation, but couldn’t even register movement. There was a magelight in her pack that would last 12 hours, but it was likely lost in the rubble.

_ What can you feel? _ A headache, mostly. She was covered in a fine layer of dust and a few chunks of rock, but nothing serious enough to give her more than some shallow cuts.  _ I’m not buried. I should be buried. _

_ What can you hear?  _ She took a deep breath, swallowing down her anxiety. Closing her eyes (even though it made no difference) she focused on what sounds she could make out. All she could hear was the blood in her ears. She clenched her jaw in frustration, then took another deep breath and held it, trying again.  _ A light scratch.  _ Rats. Best case scenario, rats.  _ Nothing falling or crumbling. _ Hopefully that meant the area she was in wouldn’t come crashing down on top of her. She turned to her side as silently as she could, pressing her ear closer to the ground.  _ Some kind of rasp. _ Even.  _ Breathing? _ Could darkspawn breathe? Could rock wraiths? Could it be a really large rat?

_ Wait, what even happened? How did I get here?  _ There was a wraith. A huge rock wraith. And...pillars. And an iron grip around her waist---

_ Fenris. _

The wraith had exploded, and the ceiling cracked in half, and the pillars came down, and she had buried her face in his chestplate, her whole body pressed up against him as they ran, and he started glowing pure white and she held on for dear life, closing her eyes----

And then, nothing.

_ What was breathing? _

It could be darkspawn, it could be a spider, it could be a rat the size of Merrill--- _ but it could also be him. _ She had a judgment call to make.

Call out and risk giving away her position to an enemy? Or stay silent, guaranteeing temporary safety but possibly denying Fenris (if it was Fenris) help?

There was really only one choice.

“Fenris?” she choked out, voice raspy. “Is that you?”

Nothing.

Oh, Maker. She was in it now, might as well go all the way. She cleared her throat.

“Fenris?” rang out her voice, gently echoing in the darkness.

There was a stirring, but no reply.

_ Well, this is it,  _ Hawke thought.  _ The damn rat is going to eat me.  _ She fumbled for her daggers, but found only rock, so she grabbed the sharpest piece she could feel and gripped it so tightly in her shaking hand that it cut through the leather of her glove and drew blood. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” she growled into the darkness, voice much steadier than she felt. Then, she realized her eyes were open.

Because she could see brilliant blue light.

 

 

She might’ve wept with relief.

“Hawke.”

She scrambled over to the light on all fours, keening in desperation, heart in her throat.

“Fenris,  _ Fenris _ , are you all right???”

“Mmmph.”

She finally crossed the space between them and found a glowing hand, lacing her fingers with his, palm going to his cheek, fingers lost in soft hair.

“Are you hurt? I can’t really see,” she murmured, voice breaking.

“My shoulder is...sore,” he managed.

“Okay,” she breathed, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “The left one?”

He grunted in confirmation.

“I’ve got a med kit in my pack, I’ll try and feel around for it,” she said, gently pulling her hand from his.

“It might be under my leg,” he replied hoarsely.

“Thank the Maker for small favours,” she croaked, patting down his legs until she found it.

“All right, this is going to be bright at first,” she warned, cracking the magelight in her palm and letting it float to eye level. She scrunched her eyes closed until it dimmed a little, then prepared to examine him. He was a little paler than normal, still bronze-skinned, and his jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. She brushed her hand over his warm forehead, freezing as she caught sight of his “sore” shoulder. 

There was a stalactite sticking out of it.

“ _ Fuck. _ ”

He raised one eyebrow.

“I assume it’s bad, then?” He started to crane his neck to look at it. 

“Stop, stop, stop, don’t look at it, look at me, ok, eyes up here,” she urged. He complied, his moss-green eyes on hers, eyebrow still quirked.

“I can do this. I’ve got you,” she soothed, taking his face in her hands. He relaxed, eyes almost imperceptibly wider, jaw loosening.

“I know,” he murmured softly.

“This is going to hurt like a bitch, and when it does, you just hold on to me right here,” she explained, wrapping his hand around her forearm, “and you squeeze as hard as you need to. I can take it. As hard as you need to for the pain to be better,” she repeated, and he nodded.

“The gauntlet,” he gestured. “Take it off so I don’t hurt you.”

Hawke immediately started sliding the tabs open, carefully pulling it off of his arm. She set her jaw.

“The pauldrons and chest plate are going to have to come off, too,” she sighed. Fenris started to try and undo it himself, but she batted his hand away.

“No, just rest, explain to me how you do it. And keep looking up here,” she pleaded.

He talked her through unhooking and unlacing his breastplate, and she opened all of the clasps but the one at his shoulder, then repeated the process with his right pauldron. She opened her med kit and pulled out the vials within.

“When I take this all the way off, I’ll have to do it  _ fast _ , and immediately take out the rock. The red one is going to keep your blood supply up, and the blue one is going to keep you from passing out in case you have a concussion, okay? After I get it out and sutured, I’m going to give you the green one, which will make it heal faster, and an hour after that, I can give you one for the pain that’ll make you sleep,” she babbled, hoping he understood her. He gave a noise  of assent. She took out a sterile cloth and spread it over her lap, coaxing him to scoot towards her. He gave a hiss of pain, and she tilted his head up, giving him the red and blue vials. He drank them down without a cough.

“Okay,” she breathed, heart pounding. “Eyes on mine, tiger.”

He looked up at her, face determined.

With a deep breath, she grabbed the spike and pulled.

 

The rock hadn’t made it all the way through his shoulder, which was a blessing. He had barely made a noise when she yanked it out, peeling off his armor and jerkin shortly after. Thick crimson blood gushed feebly into her lap. She splashed the wound with alcohol and he twitched, so she grabbed his right hand and placed it on her forearm as she pressed cotton into his shoulder.

“Fenris, squeeze if it hurts, I can take it,” she insisted, looking briefly into his beautiful eyes. “Are you still with me?” she asked, voice cracking.

“Yes,” he said, gravel in his voice.

“Good, good, you’re doing great,” she praised, waiting for the blood to clot. “Okay, I’m gonna stitch it up now, but I’m going to ask you some questions,” she continued, removing the bloody cotton and splashing alcohol over the gash again. He exhaled sharply, but didn’t put any pressure on her wrist, merely holding it. Hawke made the first poke, pulling as quickly as she could without tearing the skin, and his chest heaved.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she soothed, pulling the rent skin together again, trying to think of something to keep him distracted. “What’s the twelfth letter of the alphabet?” There was a slight pause as she continued to sew, making straight, tiny stitches.

“L,” he answered, still encircling her arm with his hand.

“Shit. You got that way faster than you were supposed to, it took Anders five minutes,” she sighed.

“I’m not Anders,” he replied, and she could feel his eyes on her, intense as sunlight.

“I know,” Hawke reassured, trying hard not to let her fingers shake. “I wish I were Anders right about now,” she laughed grimly. Fenris frowned.

“I don’t,” he said decisively, and she rolled her eyes.

“He could snap his fingers and this would be sealed up and completely gone in 4 hours,” she protested, still steadily pulling at the sutures.

“I prefer you,” he stated, resolute. She smiled crookedly as she tied off the end of the thread.

“I know that’s a testament to how much you hate him, but I’m going to pretend that you meant you enjoy my company.” His thumb rubbed a circle around the pulse in her wrist.

“I do enjoy your company,” Fenris said quietly. She swallowed, pulse quickening, and there was no way he couldn’t feel it with where he was touching her.

“I hope so,” Hawke breathed, face warm despite the chill. She gently applied elfroot salve to his shoulder, careful not to use too much pressure.  As she gently guided him to lean up, she wrapped up her handiwork in linen bandages.

“Too tight?” she inquired. He shook his head, then swallowed the vial she gave him.  She exhaled in relief, pushing her escaping hair out of her forehead and wiping his blood off of her hands with an alcohol-soaked rag. “Just an hour until you can sleep,” she reminded, absentmindedly stroking his hair. They sat in silence, his breathing becoming steadier. Her back started to ache, and she glanced at the wall thoughtfully. “Do you think you can move a little?” 

“Yes,” he answered, starting to move off her lap.

“Hold your horses,” Hawke said, placing a hand on his good shoulder. Immediately, he stopped. She took her bedroll from her pack and arranged it parallel to the wall nearby. She slid out from underneath his shoulders, replacing her legs with the pack, then inspected the wall.

“Doesn’t look like it’ll fall, but apparently you never know,” she grumbled, then sat on the corner of the mat. “Can you scoot?” she asked Fenris, who, instead of scooting, crawled over to her, pack in hand. 

“That’s not scooting. If you rip those stitches, I will have a stroke,” she growled, putting the pack to the side and gesturing for him to rest his head on her lap.

“Hawke---”

“I’m no spirit healer. You could aggravate it by turning over in your sleep, and I won’t let you do that,” she griped, patting her thigh more forcefully. Fenris sighed, but did as she asked. “Is this ok? Are you comfortable?” she asked, looking down at him.

“I do not see how you could possibly be comfortable in this position----”

“I can stay like this forever now that my back has some support,” she retorted, not unkindly. “Are you comfortable, Fenris?”

“Yes,” he admitted, breaking eye contact. She hummed happily.

Does anything else hurt? Besides your shoulder?” Hawke questioned.

“I’ve a bit of a headache,” he begrudgingly muttered.

She frowned. “Probably from clenching your jaw hard enough to get it stuck,” she murmured, slim fingers going to his temples. Massaging in gentle circles, she felt Fenris sigh in relief, and smiled.

“Better?”

“Where did you learn how to do all this?” he asked, eyes half lidded. Hawke laughed.

“Bethany’s a shit healer, so I was the one burdened with being the medic. I’m nowhere as good as the most average mage, there are some things you just can’t do without magic, but I read the right books and badgered the right people,” she explained, applying pressure to the base of his jaw. “And sometimes Anders will get hurt, so someone has to fix him enough to where he can fix himself, otherwise I’d probably be missing at least one of my limbs.” She went back to sifting her hand through his white locks.

“ _ Fenhedis _ ,” Fenris murmured. Hawke abruptly stopped. He looked up at her, wanting those fingers wrapped around his hair again.

“Was that a curse?” she asked, beaming.

“Maybe,” he rumbled, closing his eyes as she resumed her task.

“You’ll have to teach me once we get out of here. Open up,” she instructed, giving  him the painkiller. He made a face as he gulped it down.

“Yeah, Bethany made this one. Anders somehow makes his taste good,” she snorted. “You should be knocked out in a little bit. I’m going to turn this off so it’ll last until tomorrow,” she sighed, reaching for the magelight and squeezing it. The only light  was the soft glow of the lyrium swirling from where she was touching him. She stroked his cheek, squirming against the wall in an effort to become more comfortable.

“Hawke?” Fenris mumbled blearily after some time.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“Why are you...petting me?”

“Sorry, is it uncomfortable?” she apologized, making to pull her hands back, but he gently stopped her, putting his good hand on hers.

“No, it’s...not unpleasant, I just don’t...understand,” he yawned. Hawke was silent for a moment, thoughtful, as she started playing with his hair again.

“Fenris, I care about you, and you’re hurting. You’re my friend, and I want to do everything I can to make it...better,” she murmured rather lamely. “Not to mention you saved my life, and that’s what got you in this mess.”

“I couldn’t hold on tight enough,” he slurred, and she knew he was almost gone.

“Shhhh, shhh, get some rest,” she soothed. “Tomorrow we’re getting out of this hellhole.”


	13. Chapter 13

There was a gentle weight on his chest, and his shoulder was throbbing. His markings fluttered to life as he opened his eyes with a grunt, mouth dry and head pounding.

A delicate hand rested on his bare chest.

Fenris could hear her breathing, slow and even, and tried to make his fuzzy brain focus.  _ What had happened? _ There had been a collapse, he was injured, and Hawke...Hawke had taken care of him.

_ His hand on her wrist, feeling her rapid pulse, her fingers through his hair… _

_ “Fenris, I care about you…” _

And the pain. The pain that rolled his eyes back into his head and clamped his jaw shut. He gave his shoulder an experimental roll, finding it to be sensitive, but tolerable. The movement elicited a soft moan from his pillow, and her hand rose off his chest to rub at her eyes.

“Mmmm. Fenris?” Hawke said, voice coarse from sleep.

“I am here.” He felt her pat around for her pack, and closed his eyes as she turned on the magelight.

“How’s your shoulder?” she yawned, stroking his hair idly.

“Good,” he replied, looking up at her sleepy face. She had smudges of purple under her eyes, and her hair, half out of its braid, coiled into lazy ringlets. Hawke smiled at him, and he moved to a seated position, careful not to disturb the bandages.

“Let’s take a look,” she declared, cracking her neck and moving to his side. “Let me know if any of this makes the pain worse.” Her quick fingers slid the edge of the linen out from under the wrap, and Fenris swallowed hard at her touch. As she unraveled the binding, she set her face in concentration, nose crinkling and brow furrowed. With every gentle brush of her fingertips, he felt his heart beating faster, and was both relieved and disappointed when she finished.

“No strokes for me today. It’s healing nicely. As soon as we find the others, I’m sure Anders can heal it all the way,” she announced, examining her handiwork. She dabbed a touch more salve onto the stitches, then stuck her arm in her pack, presumably feeling for new bandages.

“How do you fit all of this into that small bag?” Fenris asked, dumbfounded as she triumphantly raised a large roll of linen.

“It’s enchanted,” she explained, oblivious to how her light touches sent a shock through him as she held one end of the cloth to his shoulder. “I stole it from my father a long time ago.”

“Stole?” Fenris snorted, lifting his arm to give her better access.

“It’s the only worthwhile thing I ever got from him,” she admitted, face grim. “A mabari could fit in there. Not that I’ve tested it.” She tucked the tail of the bandage in and stood up, the 

joints of her spine crackling as she moved. “See your pack anywhere?”

“I took it off before we fought that wraith. It’s likely lost to rubble now,” he grumbled.

“I’ve got something to cheer you up,” she called, throwing him his sword. “Might be a little banged up, but I’m sure it’s salvageable.”

He inclined his head in thanks, grabbing his discarded armor from the cave floor.

“How should I go about this?” he queried, showing Hawke his jerkin. She came over to him, sliding a knife from her boot.

“I’ll have to do a little surgery,” she replied, carefully detaching the left sleeve, then helping him slide the leather over his head. “I think the breastplate will be fine, but I’ll put the pauldrons in my pack.”

Fenris fastened his chestplate and gauntlets, slinging his sword onto his back. Hawke handed him some jerky, which he gladly accepted. She rolled up the bedroll and stuffed it away, reaching up to grab the magelight as she did so.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll be happy to see some lava,” she complained, a mirthful pout on her face. Fenris chuckled, following her as she shined the light over the room, revealing a door. “I hope to the Maker this isn’t locked,” she scowled. Again, her hand disappeared into the mysterious pack, first pulling out a lockpick (which she slid between her lips), and then a longsword. 

“Use this for now in case of any...guests,” she instructed. “Less likely to open up your shoulder.” 

“Fine,” he sighed reluctantly, and she gave him that crooked smile.

“Praise be, it’s unlocked,” she grinned, putting the pick behind her ear. “Shall we proceed?”

“After you,” Fenris said, gesturing in mock grandeur.

“Thank you, Ser,” she curtsied, pulling her bow from her back.

  
  


They found the others after just a few hours of searching. Varric had escaped unscathed (though he mourned the addition of new dents to Bianca), but Anders had an ugly bruise over his eye, and what appeared to be a broken nose. Fenris had darted around the corner, blade at the ready, only to find himself threatened by Bianca, Varric giving a hoot of celebration.

“Thank the Maker,” crowed Hawke, coming out from behind Fenris. She knelt down, tackling Varric with a hug as the dwarf let out a muffled cry for help. She stood up, grinning from ear to ear as Varric righted himself and patted her on the thigh.

“Hawke,” breathed Anders, running to her and lifting her into a hug with a grunt. She whooped with laughter as he spun her around, setting her down with a peck to the top of her head. Fenris felt a surge of hatred claw up his chest, and looked away, missing Varric’s knowing look.

“Did the ceiling break your nose?” Hawke asked Anders, full of ruthless giggles.

“The Deep Roads dislike Grey Wardens on principle,” he sniffed primly, poorly resisting a smile. “Are you all right, darling?”

“I’m fine, thanks to Fenris. I’ve no doubts that I would be jam for the darkspawn if he hadn’t gotten me out of the way of the avalanche,” she asserted.

“Our broody hero strikes again!” sang Varric, thumping Fenris on the back with surprising strength. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“Actually, do you have any more potions? He was hurt pretty badly, pinned by a damned stalactite,” groused Hawke to Anders, who handed her a vial.

“Everyone knows the true danger lies in the rock formations, not the darkspawn,” Anders bit, blue eyes narrowing as they locked on Fenris’s.

“At least they saw fit to let my face alone,” drawled Fenris dryly, venom in his eyes. Hawke shook the bottle, then uncorked it with her teeth and started to walk back to Fenris. Anders opened his mouth to release another taunt, but was distracted by the back of Hawke’s head.

“Wait, sweetling,” he cautioned, coming rather closer to her than Fenris would’ve preferred.

“What’s up?” she questioned, motioning for Fenris to cut the distance between them. Hawke wrapped his long fingers around the potion in her hands, and he threw it back.

“Tastes better, right?” she asked as Anders gathered her hair in his hands gingerly. As reluctant as Fenris was to admit it, it was much more tolerable than Bethany’s concoction.

“Hawke, you’re hurt,” Anders murmured, right hand glowing green. Hawke frowned, turning around, baring the back of her skull to Fenris.

There was a thick layer of dried blood beneath her braid, made visible by Anders gently holding her hair out of the way. Fenris exhaled a hiss.

“Damn, Hawke,” whistled Varric, face uncharacteristically grim.

“I’ve got a headache and I got knocked around by the avalanche, but it’s not too bad,” she insisted as Anders moved to touch the wound. “Besides, we---shit!” she yelped, Anders raising an eyebrow at her.

“Still think it’s not too bad?” he queried, mending the flesh until it was seamless once again. 

“Well, it certainly isn’t  _ now _ ,” pointed out Hawke, her slender hand probing the back of her skull. “Thanks for fixing me up yet again,” she remarked softly.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”

“Well, now that everyone’s up and kicking again, how about we get the hell out of dodge?” said Varric.

“I concur,” muttered Fenris, ripping his gaze from Hawke and Anders.

“Kirkwall awaits,” Hawke agreed.


	14. Chapter 14

When they finally reached the surface, Hawke thought she might keel over from relief. Even though it was almost dusk, it was far brighter on the coast than in the Deep Roads, and she had trouble keeping from squinting.

“I hope Mother and Bethany have things managed at the estate,” yawned Hawke. “I just want to sleep for the next week.”

“I want to feed Bartrand to a nug,” growled Varric.

“Aren’t nugs herbivores?” teased Hawke.

“For now,” Varric glowered.

“I’ll be happy to never set foot in the Deep Roads again,” sighed Anders, gazing up at the sky. The other three grunted in agreement, and they made their way to the docks.

 

“Well, friends, I suppose I’ll see you after a brief period of hibernation,” quipped Varric with an elbow to Hawke’s ribs.

“If you’re lucky,” retorted Hawke, dodging out of the way with a grin. “Thank you all for accompanying me. There’s no one I’d rather be trapped in hell for a month with.”

Varric and Anders said their goodbyes, but Fenris remained.

“I’ll walk you home,” he rumbled, mossy eyes blinking down at her. She smiled crookedly, linking her arm in his.

“Lead the way.”

As they made their way through Hightown, her arm wrapped around his (softly glowing) one, Fenris cleared his throat. Hawke looked up at him expectantly, drawing a bit closer.

“I realized that I haven’t thanked you enough for...taking care of me.”

“Need I remind you that if it wasn’t for saving me, you wouldn’t have needed taking care of?” asked Hawke.

“Nevertheless. You did me a great kindness, and I hope to someday repay you,” he murmured. Hawke stopped, turning to face him, her hand sliding down his arm to entwine with his.

“Fenris, there is nothing to repay,” she breathed, head craned back as she locked eyes with his. “You’re my friend. You’re dear to me. Of course I helped you, and I’ll do it again. That’s not something that makes you owe me.” He remained silent for a moment, expression unreadable, and she swallowed nervously. _Did I make him uncomfortable?_

“Thank you, Hawke.” He drew closer, taking her other hand, and she felt her heartbeat skyrocket. “You honor me.”

“You honor me by saving my ass every half hour,” she replied, and he looked away, a smile creeping at the corners of his lips.

“And I intend to continue.” He held out his arm for her, and again she wrapped hers around his, feeling the heat of his bare forearm through her leathers. They walked through the market and toward the estate, surprised to find a small cluster of people outside of it.

 

“No,” choked Hawke, recognizing the insignia on their armor. She broke away from Fenris into a run, pushing her way past the templars into the estate.

“What is the meaning of this?” she barked, seeing Bethany being bound by two templars.

“Sister, don’t…” warned Bethany, resignation on her face. Hawke immediately went for her daggers before feeling a hand wrap around her wrist.

“There are too many of them,” warned Fenris softly, his breath warm in her ear. She gripped the hilt of the blade but did not withdraw it, hands shaking with anger.

“You have been harboring an apostate,” said the templar on Bethany’s left. “She is to be taken to the Circle at once, by order of the Knight-Captain.”

“Oh?” snarled Hawke, getting in his face. “And where is your Knight-Captain now? We need to have a chat.” Bethany winced, shaking her head at Hawke.

“I am here, Lady Hawke,” came a somewhat familiar voice from the doorway. Hawke whirled around, Fenris at her side. The sight before her made her jaw drop open and her brow furrow.

_“Stanton?”_

The tall, pale Knight-Captain coughed awkwardly.

“My first name is Cullen.”

Again, Hawke went for her daggers, and again, she felt Fenris behind her, gently gripping her wrist.

“Tell me, _Cullen,_ what exactly is the meaning of this?” she taunted.

“You will address the Knight-Captain with respect,” ordered another templar, about to move towards her. Hawke braced herself, and Fenris began to glow, a snarl on his lips.

“Stand down,” Cullen instructed, and the templar retreated. “You know the law as well as I. Mages in Kirkwall must be taken to the Circle, no exceptions.” Hawke opened her mouth in aretort, but he cut her off. “This should answer any questions you might have. You will be questioned about fraternization with other apostates come tomorrow,” he said, handing her a writ. Then he gestured to his men, and they began to leave, only the two guarding Bethany remaining.

“This isn’t your fault,” soothed Bethany, even as her hands were roughly bound. “I love you. Take care of Mother, and don’t worry about me.”

“How could I ever stop worrying about you?” choked Hawke, lunging for her as the templars led her toward the door. Fenris loosely wrapped his arm around her waist, warning her but not constricting her.

“I’ll write, you’ll visit. I’m not afraid,” Bethany called. “Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t blame yourself.”

And with that, she was gone.

In the relative silence, Hawke realized that she could hear crying from the upper wing.

_Mother. She’s bound to blame me._

She leaned back against Fenris, in shock, and he rested his chin on her head, his other arm coming to join the one around her waist. Hawke was shaking, from anger, from betrayal, from guilt, from fear.

“I do not know what to say, but I am here,” she felt Fenris say, and she looked at the writ in her shaking hand. It was handwritten, and there was no seal.

“Look at this,” she muttered, voice hoarse with emotion.

_Hawke_ ,

_I know how you must be feeling right now, but I had no choice. I’ll return after midnight with a way to help you._ _Do not_ _try anything---even you can’t take on the templars and win._

_Cullen Stanton Rutherford_

She handed the note to Fenris and stalked over to the fireplace, pacing.

“The Knight-Captain is the one you’ve told me about? With the books?” asked Fenris gently.

“Yes,” Hawke bit. “He’s known I’ve been in Kirkwall for Maker knows how long. He _knows_ Bethany. I don’t understand how he could do this---to her, to me. I---”. She swallowed thickly. “This is like a bad dream.”

“So wait for him to come back, and get some answers,” Fenris reasoned, the deep gravel of his voice dulling the sting of the feelings swirling in Hawke’s chest. She nodded jerkily, flexing her hands.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” she mumbled, realizing what she needed to do.

“Anything.”

“I need Isabela. Could you try and track her down?” she asked, swallowing hard.

“It will be done,” he answered. “Don’t kill any templars until I get back.”

“Okay,” murmured Hawke as he stalked into the night.

 

At half past midnight, Hawke heard a rap on her door. Expecting Fenris (and maybe Isabela), she thoughtlessly opened it, only to find the Knight-Captain in plainclothes on her doorstep. She glared at him, speechless, as he sidled past her into the house, closing the door behind him.

“Hawke,” he began, the lilt of his Fereldan accent entirely too familiar. She cut him off by slamming him against the closed door, his hands raising in surrender.

“Give me even ONE reason why I shouldn’t beat the shit out of you,” she snarled, voice cracking.

“I’m here to help you, I’m not here to---”

“What about my little sister? Did you help her?”

“Meredith discovered she---”

She put her face barely an inch from his.

“So now she gets to spend the rest of her life in a prison, being ogled by assholes like you?”

“Lena, I---”

She took out a knife and put his to his throat.

“Don’t _ever_ presume to say my name again, or I’ll cut off your head and feed it to my mabari,” she threatened. The Knight-Captain sighed, then swiftly disarmed her, taking the knife and throwing it while twisting her arm behind her back. Hawke responded with a punch that shattered bone, his sharp cheekbone breaking under her fist. He let go of her and stepped back, groaning, a hand to the injury. Hawke prepared to hit him, but he raised up his arms once more in surrender.

“Hawke. Please listen to what I have to say and then you are welcome to hit me some more if you still feel the need to,” he rasped, wincing as the skin on his face pulled around the pieces of his cheekbone. She huffed angrily, panting, remembering that Fenris and Isabela should be arriving soon. Provided she wasn’t on a boat to Rivain with several strapping crewmates.

“Fine,” she hissed, hostility surging off of her in waves. “Make it quick.”

Cullen gave a sigh of relief, but dared not move from his position lest she become aggravated again.

“After your mother applied for citizenship and the ownership of the estate, it brought attention to Bethany and herself. Meredith demanded an investigation, and I had to arrest her. I had no choice.”

“You _know_ Bethany, you KNOW she would never be a blood mage,” Hawke spat.

“Which is why I did not mention my knowledge of her to Meredith before,” countered Cullen. “I did my best to keep attention away from both of you, but you know as well as I that you weren’t hiding. Either of you.” Hawke processed his words, silent for once.

“There’s nothing I can do for Bethany now, but you are going to be questioned by Meredith and the Viscount in the morning about your associations with apostates,” he continued, cautiously stepping toward her. “You’ll be interrogated or even imprisoned until you give them up. It’s Kirkwall law.”

Hawke pressed her palm to her forehead, overwhelmed and exhausted.

“So you basically came here to tell me to give up my friends?” she laughed bitterly. “Once you would’ve known what a stupid idea that is.”

“Le--” he began, stopping as her eyes flashed in warning. “Hawke,” he amended, face to face with her now. “There’s a loophole, but it’s not much better.” Her head shot up.

“What is it?” she asked, suspicious.

“It may be the law that you have to give up any apostates that you know of, but Kirkwall wasn’t always this way. There are a number of old laws that only account for association with blood mages.”

Hawke made a face that he recognized.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, blood mages?”

“I didn’t say that,” she growled, tearing her eyes away from him, wanting to pace.

“Well, luckily, in those days, association meant you were under...undue influence of a blood mage,” he explained, still watching her face for more tells.

“As in sleeping with one?” she asked. His hand immediately went to the back of his neck.

“What? Maker, no, it---are you? Sleeping with---”

The annoyed look on her face stopped his stammering.

“St-- _Knight Captain_ , do you think I’m an idiot?” she bit.

“No,” Cullen coughed, relieved but still on edge. “Influence that would make a demon come out if you were attacked.”

“Possession?” she asked.

“Among other things.” He waited anxiously for her reply.

“That’s not an issue for me. This relates to my friends how?” Hawke snapped.

“It hasn’t been used in an age, but if a person thought to be an associate of a blood mage underwent a...trial of sorts, and succeeded, it would be illegal to question them any further.”

“A trial?”

He cleared his throat. “Fifty lashes.” She looked at him in disbelief.

“So that’s your brilliant plan? I either give up or get crippled?”

“It falls to the Knight-Captain to give the punishment. I’d have to really hit you, else risking Meredith coming down on us both, but I’d make sure to spread them out so they won’t cause any permanent damage.” She gave him a look that was more confused than hostile.

“If Meredith knew you were here right now, telling me this, what would happen?”

“I’d likely be imprisoned or executed for treason,” he replied dryly.

“Then why even bother? Why tell me this?” she questioned, a furrow in her brow.

“Because I have not forgotten you,” he said quietly. She scoffed.

“I’ve been in Kirkwall for nearly two years now. There’s no way you hadn’t heard I was here, but you didn’t…”

“I knew Bethany would be with you, and I didn’t want to draw any undue attention.” Her eyebrows creased.

“Stant---Cullen, I thought you’d died. It’s been five years, and not a single word, and now you’re here, and you’ve been here, and... Maker, I hurt you.” she groaned, looking at the bloom of purple across his face.

“I deserved it for not writing,” he joked, seeing the anger slip off of Hawke to be replaced with guilt.

“If it makes you feel better, I definitely broke my hand on your face,” she murmured, giving into exhaustion now that the perceived threat was gone and sliding onto the couch.

“It doesn’t,” he frowned, glancing at the wounded hand but remaining where he stood.

“Oh, sit down,” she huffed, using her good hand to pull him down next to her. She was silent for a beat, gazing at him as though seeing him for the first time.

“Do you want a potion for that?” she asked, seeing him wince as his slight grin aggravated his wound.

“That depends on who made it…” he ventured carefully, cueing an impressive eye roll as Hawke handed him one from her pocket.

“Not Bethany,” she reassured him, feeling her face crumple at the thought of her sister. She still had yet to even see her mother, but the crying had stopped around an hour ago.

“I’m truly sorry,” Cullen said softly, amber eyes full of sorrow.

“I know. Shit, I’m the one who should be apologizing, you came here to risk your career and save my friends and I broke your face,” she muttered, guilt mixed with exhaustion crushing her.

“I knew what I was getting into,” he admitted, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I don’t regret it. I owe you.”

“Not after this,” she replied seriously. “How long do I have?”

“You could probably petition for an extra day, since you’ve been on an extended trip. Of course, petitions are best granted with favors or gold,” Cullen said.

“I’ve got a few strings I can pull,” Hawke conceded. “Let’s do this. You’ll get your payback for me temporarily ruining your face,” she remarked wryly.

“I’d rather not have it. It will not be easy for me to hurt you,” he sighed.

“Luckily for us, misery loves company,” she commented, the look in his eyes making her uncomfortable. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“This is the only break I can give you. I doubt anyone will press the issue, especially when you’ve made your mark on the rest of Kirkwall, but if there are any more incidents, I cannot help you. It would make it worse on both of us.” He paused, looking for the right words. “I’m trusting you, here. If these ‘friends’ of yours turn out to---”

“They won’t.” Hawke interjected. He gave her a serious look, then resumed.

“If anything happens, I cannot help you. I have already forsaken my duty far beyond what I should.”

“I know,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Cullen?”

“Are you? I’m not the one being publicly whipped.”

“Publicly?” Hawke moaned.

“I suggest you read through the laws to know what you’re in for. If you change your mind, all you have to do is tell---”

“You know I’m not doing that.”

“I know,” he ceded with a sigh. “I need to get back before I’m missed. I...be well, Le--Hawke.”

“You as well, Knight-Captain,” she answered with a weak smile, walking with him to the door. She pulled it open to reveal Isabela and Fenris, the former’s hand raised in a knocking position.

“Kitten, I came as--- _ooh_ , what have we here? The Knight-Captain out of his chastity armor? I surely hope you’ve been taking advantage.”

“Isabela,” sighed (groaned?) Cullen in greeting, immediately turning a delicate shade of pink.

“You two know each other?” Hawke said, slightly amused.

“Not as well as...we haven’t...you and I are…” floundered Cullen.

“He has a standing invitation from me. Or sitting. Or---”

“I see,” said Hawke, now groaning along with Cullen. She met Fenris’s eyes. “Thank you, Fenris. I owe you one for dragging her out of whomever’s bed at this hour.” Fenris tried not to grimace.

“As much as you don’t want to know the details, I’m sure you’ll get them,” he grumbled.

“I should be off before the recruits notice I’m not in the tower,” Cullen said, looking at the lightening color of the sky. “You’ve got a day, Hawke. Be safe,” he murmured, again tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear in habit.

“Don’t get in trouble on my account,” she replied, waving feebly.

“A day until what?” Fenris asked, posture defensive. Hawke rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You’d better come inside.”

 

Fenris shut the door behind him, following Isabela and Hawke to the main room.

“I like the new digs, Kitten,” voiced Isabela, who was stroking a velvet curtain.

“I promise to give you the tour later, if I can remember what everything looks like now it’s not covered in slaver,” answered Hawke, sinking into the couch once again, broken hand held carefully in her lap.

“What did you do?” Fenris asked, noticing the odd way she held it.

“I may or may not have broken my hand on the Knight-Captain’s face,” admitted Hawke. Fenris frowned.

“He didn’t seem too concerned with it.”

“Hmmm. Maybe he liked it,” mused Isabela with a wicked smile.

“Maker have mercy, Bela, he didn’t _like_ it, I smashed in his cheekbone. Bethany is…” Hawke swallowed hard. “They have Bethany. And I’m going to be interrogated about my so-called ‘collusion’ with any other apostates.” Isabela turned somber.

“Fenris said it was serious, but I didn’t…”

“My mother finally stopped crying a few hours ago. I would be surprised if she even speaks to me this month,” Hawke managed, visibly upset. “But I can’t worry about that now. Cullen says there’s a loophole to get me out of giving anyone else up.”

“Why give anyone else up at all? Why not lie?” pointed out Isabela, her full lips in a frown.

“We haven’t been careful enough. Meredith knows that I work with other mages, she just wasn’t concerned by it until now. They’ll imprison me until I say something.”

“What’s this loophole, then?” Isabela asked. Hawke looked at her hands, exhaled, and addressed Fenris.

“You aren’t going to like it,” she said softly.

“I’m getting that impression,” Fenris replied, the hint of a scowl on his face.

“Due to some older law, if I refuse to be interrogated, they have to drop it if I take fifty lashes without...hurting anyone. As in possession.”

There was a stunned silence.

 

“You cannot actually be considering this,” hissed Fenris, rising. “It’s not as though the abomination and the blood mage aren’t risks: you would be right to give them up in the first place!”

“No,” Hawke maintained, voice as strong as it had been all night. “I’m not losing anyone else. I already have enough guilt on my hands.” Fenris ran a hand through his hair, clenching it in frustration as he paced.

“Hawke,” he said, voice deathly quiet. “Have you ever been whipped before?”

“I haven’t,” she replied, throat tight. He came closer to her.

“I have seen people killed by less than fifty lashes,” he pleaded.

“I know, I... I don’t expect it to be easy.”

“Easy?” he scoffed.

“I don’t expect it to be anything but the worst pain I’ve had,” she retorted, standing to meet him. Isabela remained curled in her chair, silent.

“Then why are you doing this? Why are you risking your life for these---these _dangers_?”

“They’re my friends, Fenris. Same as you.” Hawke coughed, clearing up her cracking voice. “And it won’t kill me. Cullen is the one giving them.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He’s helping, doing his best to make up for Bethany,” she explained.

“Hold on,” called Isabela, speaking for the first time. “Do you know him from somewhere?” Hawke blushed, looking at the ceiling.

“There was a templar in Lothering…”

Isabela shot up in her seat. “ _Your_ templar? The one who---”

“Obviously not my templar,” Hawke bit, embarrassed. “We knew each other years ago, and things ended badly, and he’s trying to make it up to me.”

“By whipping you within an inch of your life?” growled Fenris.

“He knew I would prefer that to losing anyone.” Fenris stared at Hawke, markings beginning to light.

“This is madness. I cannot support you in this.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Hawke insisted, dark eyes miserable.

“If Anders found out about this---”

“Oh, he’s not going to,” cut in Isabela. “The last thing we need is Justice raining down on Kirkwall.”

“ _Exactly my point_. Just give him to the Circle. We will all be safer for it,” urged Fenris, again looking down into Hawke’s eyes.

“You know I can’t do that, Fenris.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I would do it for you. I would do it for any of you,” she answered, eyes finally starting to brim.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” spat Fenris, turning away. Hawke flinched.

“I’ve already lost my baby sister tonight. I’m not losing anyone else.”

“If he loses control---if he hurts anyone---it’s on your hands now,” Fenris snarled, stalking toward the door.

“He won’t,” whispered Hawke. Fenris looked over his shoulder.

“He will.”

 

And with that, Fenris was gone.

 

“Oh, Kitten,” soothed Isabela, “come here.” Hawke climbed into Isabela’s lap, shaking, hand to her eyes.

“Well, he hates me now,” she croaked as Isabela stroked her hair. “My sister, who I promised to protect, is now facing her worst nightmare, and it’s my fault,” she continued, voice brittle.

“It’s not your fault,” said Isabela, gently grabbing her by the chin. “Look at me. It’s not your fault Bethany was taken. It’s Kirkwall. It’s genetics. It’s this damned conflict. You couldn’t have stopped it. And your mother insisted on her staying here, so it may as well be her fault. It’s not your fault. And you know Bethany. She’ll have everyone, mage and templar alike, wrapped around her finger in a week’s time.”

“But what if she doesn’t? What if the templars---”

“Kitten, it seems you have a friend in the templars. And even so, if anything happens, we’ll break her out and get on a boat to Antiva. Preferably with several muscular deckhands. I promise you this.” Hawke gave a weak smile.

“I know how serious you are about your muscular deckhands,” she managed, the tension in her shoulders slightly lessening.

“Of course. And Fenris will come around. If he doesn’t, it wasn’t meant to be,” Isabela murmured, jeweled hand still carding through Hawke’s hair. “Besides, with the way those brooding eyes follow you, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”

Hawke gave Isabela a bemused look.

“He just...we’re friends. Or we were,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Hawke, there’s a reason I haven’t tried to hop into bed with him. The energy coming off of you two could fry an Arishok.”

“You really think so?” Hawke asked, doubtful.

“Sweetness, I _know_ so. Now let’s get over to the Hanged Man. I’ll get Varric out of his bed and ready to sort this out while you get into his bed and get some sleep.” Isabela coaxed Hawke out of her lap and onto her feet.

“Bela, I love you,” said Hawke with her crooked grin.

“Oh, I know, Kitten,” Isabela purred, grasping Hawke’s good hand with her own. “I love you too.”


	15. Chapter 15

Fenris was so frustrated with Hawke that the very thought of her was driving him to madness.

Unluckily for him, nearly  _ all _ of his thoughts seemed to be of her now---the pain and rage in her eyes when the Templars had taken Bethany, the whisper of her fingers in his hair, the bare affection he’d occasionally heard in her voice---

_ I would do it for you. _

Why? Why was she so damned hardheaded? Why was she willing to undergo  _ torture _ to protect a dangerously arrogant abomination and a naive blood mage? The thought of the flesh on her slim shoulders being rent to pieces sent a wave of nausea through him. He knew the taste of the whip better than the spark of her gentle hands on his bare skin, and he desperately did not want these things to overlap.

So, on the day it was to happen, he found himself ambivalently pacing around the mansion, knocking over the occasional table in frustration.

_ He should go to her. She needed him. _

No, no, Hawke did not need anyone, and besides, she had Isabela and Varric, and those two always had a plan. He had done everything he could to talk her out of it, to no avail. She had gotten herself into this mess, and it wasn’t his responsibility to hold her hand through the aftermath.

_ But the thought of those delicate hands in his ruined ones made his heart riot against his ribs. _

Cursing himself, Hawke, and anything else in earshot, he pulled a tunic on over his leggings, foregoing his armor and sword, and stalked out of the mansion, slamming the door behind him.

 

Taking the stairs to the Gallows two at a time, he shoved past a small crowd of nobles and Templars. It appeared to be over---Meredith was stomping back to her office, frowning bitterly, followed closely by the Knight-Captain. Finally reaching the top, he caught sight of her, somewhat blocked by Isabela, and began to run.

She was pale as death, her dark hair braided into an unkempt bun, strands flying everywhere. Every visible inch of her skin glowed with a sheen of sweat, and she wore a tunic of thin white linen. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she slumped forward onto Isabela, who was unbinding her wrists. As he made to bend down beside them, he was overwhelmed by the thick, sweet scent of blood.

“Can I faint now?” Fenris heard Hawke ask feebly.

“Not on your life,” Isabela answered, false cheer in her demeanor. She jumped at Fenris’s presence, then relaxed as she recognized him, giving him a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Look alive, Kitten, we have company.” She severed the rope in half, rubbing at the marks on Hawke’s wrists.

Hawke raised her head with a wince and opened her eyes, which were extremely bloodshot. 

“Fenris?” she whispered, disbelieving. He took a deep breath of preparation, then moved behind her to assess the damage. Though he knew exactly what to expect, the sight of it shoved his heart into his throat.

The tunic was shredded, string and flesh alike hanging in strips from Hawke’s barely covered back. Interlocking lines crisscrossed her shoulders, spreading to below her ribcage, and blood dripped down to the pavement below. Some of the lashes had already started to clot, turning dark burgundy, but others gleamed crimson, and the usually ivory flesh was an angry pink.

He had no idea how she was still conscious.

“Come here, you little fool,” he murmured, and she put her arms around his neck with a pained mewl as he slid both hands under her thighs to carry her, rising slowly so as not to aggravate her injuries.

“The estate?” he asked Isabela, who nodded in return.

“Varric’s already there. Leandra’s in Starkhaven, thanks to a forged invitation.”

As he began to descend the stairs with Hawke in his arms, he had to move one of his hands under her small backside to support her, pulling her close without having to touch her open wounds. Walking briskly, he made his way to Hightown, lips lifting into a snarl when passerby stared too long. Hawke’s sharp jaw rested on his shoulder, and he could hear her pained breaths. Isabela strode ahead of them, effectively clearing the way, and she opened the door for them once they had finally arrived.

“Can I faint  _ now _ ?” Hawke murmured, and Fenris felt her lips move against his throat.

“Try and hold off for us, hero,” Varric said, showing no surprise at Fenris’s presence. “Let’s get her upstairs, and then we can talk about losing consciousness.”

\-----------

Hawke was not certain that she could trust what her mind was telling her.

Someone was carrying her, and her face was buried in the juncture between their neck and shoulders, and even though fire pulsed through the welts on her back with every beat of her heart, she thought she knew the rumble of that voice. Her vision was hazy, and there was a ringing in her ears, but amongst the smell of her own blood and sweat, she caught leather and lyrium and wine. He put her down on something soft, and she felt Isabela turn her onto her stomach.

She heard the sound of the tunic (or what was left of it) being ripped in half at the back, and winced as the shreds of fabric stuck in her wounds were wrenched away. Isabela was talking about deep breaths, and there was a hand in hers, one that glowed as she clumsily wrapped her fingers around it and----

FUCK.

The smell of vodka and her shoulders were screaming for relief, the wildfire lit all over again. Her head was tipped back, and she heard the familiar anchor of Varric’s voice as a potion came down her throat. She swallowed it, eyelids not responding to her attempt to keep them open, and gritted her teeth once more as a hand rubbed something smelling strongly of elfroot down her shoulders to the small of her back.

“I’m fainting now,” she tried to say to no one in particular, and a hand cupped her face as she thought no more.

\----------

“It’s a good thing Blondie’s swamped at the clinic,” sighed Varric, looking down at Hawke’s unconscious form. Fenris sat in the chair at the side of her bed, practicing his reading, and Isabela had gone to the Hanged Man to “drink herself into a stupor”. Hawke was stable, no fever, and her wounds were cleaned and bandaged. Thankfully, Isabela had thought to slide an oversized tunic over Hawke before she left, as Fenris had literally ripped off the last one, and all she had on otherwise were leggings and the bandages on her back. She had been sleeping for six hours, and was due to wake up any time---as loath as Fenris was to acknowledge it, the Knight-Captain  _ did _ separate the strikes well, and the damage was only superficial.

“He’s bound to find out somehow,” Fenris pointed out, turning a page with a little more force than necessary.

“I’m thinking Hawke and I will take him out to the Coast before we break the news, just in case. He’s not going to hear it from any Fereldan refugees: none of them were there, it was just nobles and Templars. Luckily, he’s not too fond of Templars, and no noble would set foot in Darktown, so we should be fine.”

“There is no  _ we _ ,” Fenris spat, then tried to reel himself back in. “I still don’t approve of this. I tried my hardest to talk her out of it.”

“And yet, you’re here,” Varric replied smoothly, a knowing smirk on his face. “Why do you think that is?”

“Apparently, irrationality is contagious,” Fenris muttered, trying to return his focus to the words on the page. He paused.

“Even if you are the first ones to tell the abomination, and you do it in a location with no possible casualties, what happens if Justice pops out and he tries to slaughter you both?” bit Fenris.

“If it were just me, I might be worried, but Anders would never hurt Hawke. It would kill him,” Varric answered matter-of-factly. “Any time he’s ever come close to losing control before, all she has to do is say his name, and it’s back to just one brooding glowy person in our friend group, and he’s an elf.”

Fenris prepared a bitter reply, but both of them jumped at a groan from Hawke.

“Please tell me you’re leaving this out of the book,” she croaked, gingerly rolling onto her side. “Maker, how long have I been laying like this? My tits hurt like hell.”

“Worse than your back?” chuckled Varric.

“It’s a different kind of pain,” she rasped with mirth. “I’m surprised you don’t understand, what with your luscious bosom.”

“As am I,” Fenris added, and Hawke tried to sit up in surprise at the sound of his voice, only to swear in agony as the scabs on her shoulders stretched.

“Fenris? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s still me,” he sighed, coming around to help her sit up. She looked at him with wonder in her eyes, and he was beginning to question just how strong that painkilling salve was.

“Broody here’s been at your side for hours,” Varric smirked. “He even swept you up and carried you in his arms to your bed.” 

“I thought that was a dream,” she murmured confusedly, then immediately broke eye contact with Fenris, face pinkening. As she cautiously reached to feel her bandages, Fenris found himself staring at the smooth run of her collarbones, the delicate hollow in between. He had the strange urge to graze them with his fingertips.

“Honestly, it doesn’t feel that bad, considering,” Hawke remarked, oblivious to his struggle with his odd impulses. “Maybe two or three more days and I could be convincingly back to normal…”

“Andraste’s ass, woman, leave it alone!” Varric groaned. She rolled her eyes, but relented, her hands returning to her lap.

“Now that I’m absolutely certain you aren’t dead, I’ve got to run a few errands. You think you and Broody can manage for an hour?” snorted Varric.

“Absolutely certain? Why didn’t you just check for a pulse?” she teased, eyes gleaming.

“You never can tell with humans,” he sniffed in reply. Fenris cut in before Hawke could fire back with whatever was on the tip of her tongue.

“Go. We will be fine.”

The dwarf blew Hawke a kiss, slipping through the door with a wink. Noticing the fire was waning, Fenris got up from his chair to attend to it. When he sat back down, he realized Hawke was studying him, her expression soft. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“You came back,” she explained, easing down onto her side with a slight wince.

“Disappointed?” he replied dryly, feeling self-conscious.  _ I couldn’t stay away. _

She made a face. “Hardly.”

“It is as you said,” sighed Fenris, unsure of where to look. “We are friends.”

When she beamed brilliantly up at him, he raised the other eyebrow.

“Just how strong was that potion?”

“I missed you,” Hawke admitted, and his mouth went dry at the confession.  _ I missed you, too. _ He almost said it. He wanted to say it. 

But it was true, too painfully true, and he couldn’t get the words out. Even though it had barely been two days, after months of being at her side every minute of every day, he felt the loss of her presence strongly. Even though she was foolish and entirely too trusting.

He realized he hadn’t responded to her.

“How is your back?” he hastily queried.

“I shouldn’t have messed with it,” Hawke begrudgingly sighed. “Don’t you dare tell Varric.” He snorted as he gave her another potion, watching her throat ripple as she downed it. The lines of pain on her brow softened, and she relaxed, still watching him from her position on her side.

“What are you reading?” she asked, inclining her head toward the book on the side table. Her voice was already laced with drowsiness.

“ _ Hard in Hightown _ . Chapter...three,” Fenris answered, glancing at the spine.

“Read to me? Please?” murmured Hawke. 

“As long as you promise not to tell Varric about this,” he grimaced, earning him a musical laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Act I. Thank you for reading :')


	16. Chapter 16

When Fenris made his way to Hawke’s estate for his weekly “reading lesson” (which had quickly devolved into him reading to her with only occasional corrections due to his increased skills), he startled at the sound of what seemed to be a bear behind Hawke’s door. He had half a mind to take the sword off of his back, but decided against it when he heard Hawke’s voice, muffled but not distressed.

“I swear on Andraste AND her mabari, if you are not on your best behavior…” The door swung open as she poked her head out.

“Come on in, I’m handling the dog,” she panted, vanishing as quickly as she had appeared. Cautiously, he slipped through the door, making sure to close it tightly behind him. He vaguely remembered that Hawke had a dog.

However, the incredibly angry knot of teeth and muscles in front of him (held back by Hawke’s hand at his collar) did not seem to be a dog.

“Sandor, enough! Sit!” she ordered, and, reluctantly, the animal obeyed her, still glaring at Fenris.

“Sorry, he’s a bit wary of new people,” Hawke apologized, coming closer to Fenris.

“A bit?” he asked in reply, raising an eyebrow.

“He thinks you’re going to try and hurt me,” she explained, “we just have to show him that’s not the case.” The dog let out a low growl, and Hawke rolled her eyes.

“All right, don’t move,” she sighed, moving to Fenris’s side and facing the incredibly suspicious animal before them. “Is it all right if I touch you?”

“You know you don’t have to ask,” Fenris muttered, swallowing down his rocketing pulse. She gently crept an arm around his torso and placed her other palm flat on his chest, and, despite the armor, he wondered if she could feel the way his heart seemed to reach for her touch with every beat.

“Baby, look,” she coaxed, and the dog narrowed its brown eyes, but softened its posture slightly. “We like Fenris. Hmmm? He’s our friend.”

To Fenris’s eternal surprise, the hair on Sandor’s back relaxed, and his tail gave a tentative wag. Hawke disentangled their limbs and approached the dog, bending at the waist to pet him on the head.

“Yeah, sweetie. We love having Fenris around, don’t we?” she cheered, grinning up at Fenris and wiggling the dog’s ears. He couldn’t help but smile crookedly back, shaking his head.

“Trust me?” Hawke asked, eyes sparkling.

“Yes,” answered Fenris without hesitation. She got up, telling Sandor to stay, and took his gauntleted hand, deftly unhooking the tabs. His markings glowed a brilliant blue when her hands touched his bare skin, and she laid the piece of armor on a nearby table. Leaning his greatsword against the wall, she pulled him up to the dog, placing her hand over his as she knelt.

“Just like this,” she said, guiding his hand to pet the back of Sandor’s head, her free hand coming to scratch the dog behind the ear. Sandor’s tongue lolled out of his mouth as he started panting, enjoying the attention. Fenris got down on his knees beside Hawke as she pulled her hand back from his. 

“Not so bad, is he?” 

“Which one of us are you talking to?” Fenris asked, mock suspicion in his voice, and she snorted. With that, Sandor gave an impressive lick to Fenris’s face, knocking him off balance and onto the carpet.

“Sandor,  _ off _ !” Hawke tried to say through a fit of laughter, shoving the happy dog off of Fenris, laughing harder still as he gave her a reproachful look through his own chuckles. Sandor laid down next to Fenris, who was out of breath with amusement on his back, and Hawke got on her stomach, chin in her hands, absolutely beaming down at him.

“Mmmm. I knew he would like you,” she said, still shaking with giggles.

“I was expecting a different kind of attack,” Fenris grumbled, glancing at Sandor, his tail wagging lazily.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that before,” Hawke mused, reaching over to  give the mabari a belly rub. “It’s nice.” 

Feeling warm and strangely bold, Fenris turned on his side, leaning on his elbow with his face level to hers.

“Was that a compliment I heard?” he asked with a smirk.

“And if it was?” replied Hawke coyly, shifting to copy his stance.

She was so close, much closer than usual, her face inches from his, and he caught the familiar scent of her hair. Her lips were curved upward in a challenging smirk, her dark eyes glittering----

_ He would only have to barely move his head---his hand cupping that sharp jaw, fingers lost in her hair---- _

He shot up into a seated position at the sound of the door opening.

“Lena, what’s this?” Leandra asked, frowning down at the sight of them on the carpet with the dog. 

_ Lena? _

“Just doing some introductions, Mother,” sighed Hawke, nimbly rising to her feet and offering Fenris a hand. “This is Fenris, I was introducing him to Sandor.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Fenris,” said Leandra with an eye to the mabari. “I trust things went better this time?”

“I believe our Sandor has found himself a forever friend,” Hawke replied airily. The dog sneezed as if in agreement.

“Please excuse me, Fenris, but I have some letter writing to do. I trust my daughter will make you feel quite at home,” Leandra declared, giving them a nod before ascending the stairs. As soon as her bedroom door closed, Hawke leaned against the wall with a sigh, nose crinkled.

“Lena?” Fenris inquired, genuinely curious.

“I’ve asked her so many times not to call me that when we aren’t alone,” Hawke moaned, cheeks darkening. 

“Why? It’s not a bad name,” Fenris pointed out, tilting his head.

“Because Hawke works so well for me,” she began, absentmindedly fiddling with the tail of her braid. “When I’m Hawke, it’s like...it’s like I could be anyone. Male or female. It’s...mysterious.  _ Lena _ just sounds like an awkward little girl.”

“Who all knows?”

“Just Aveline. Maybe Varric, though I think he prefers the noun-esque qualities of Hawke as well as I do. Oh, and Bethany, obviously.”

“Not Isabela?” he asked, surprised.

“She’d never let me hear the end of it,” Hawke snorted, rolling her eyes. “I just tell her to keep guessing.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Fenris murmured, and her brow smoothed.

“Actually, if it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was you,” she sighed, letting the braid drop. “I don’t really mind you knowing, even if it is embarrassing.”

A strange sort of pride filled him at her words, and he realized a way he might be able to make her feel better.

“‘Fenris’ means ‘little wolf’ in Tevene,” he muttered, glancing at the snoozing mabari on the floor. “Danarius made me his dog in both name and life.” His gaze was returned to hers with the slightest pressure of her hand on his face.

“Danarius is an arrogant fool,” Hawke said simply. “You are no one’s dog---you’re a man, you’re a  _ good _ man and a great friend. You are not small. You have never been small. And I fully intend---” she cupped the other side of his face with her free hand and stretched to come closer to his height “---to remind him of this as we kill him, but what matters most to me is that  _ you _ remember this. All right?”

Knowing he would never be able to construct an answer with enough meaning to show her how  _ grateful _ he was---for her friendship, for her presence, for the way she always managed to make the tangled barbs inside of him come undone somehow---he just held her.

He wrapped his arms around her, bare hand on her lower spine, and he could feel the protrusions of its bones through the tunic she was wearing. In turn, Hawke encircled his neck with her arms, her forehead resting on his breastplate, and he cursed himself yet again for wearing his armor. He wanted to feel her against him, and he knew she couldn’t be comfortable against his hard edges and spikes in just her plainclothes. The whisper of her breaths touched his bare throat, and his instincts quickly overwhelmed him, urging him to brush her lips with his, to push her against the wall and hike her up so she could reach him, to nip the pulse at her neck, to do something, anything, everything.

But did she want that?

A loud snore made them flinch, and he loosened his grip on her as they both looked at Sandor in surprise. He was on his back, all four legs twitching and up in the air.

“I guess someone’s having good dreams,” Hawke quipped, her hands separating their grip around his neck to slide down to his chest. She was quite flushed, and even though there was only the barest difference in color from her irises, he could see that her pupils were blown wide. “We should get started on that lesson.”

He grunted in agreement, reluctantly breaking his hold on her and grabbing the stack of books on the table. After giving the mabari another amused look as he followed Hawke into the study, he remembered something.

“What did your mother mean about ‘things going better’ with Sandor?” Fenris asked.

“The last person he met was Anders, and it...didn’t go as well as I’d hoped,” she admitted.

“How so?”

“Well, I had to hide Anders behind me the entire visit, or Sandor would try and chew on his robes, or steal the staff off of his back to play with it, and he snarled whenever Anders tried to say or do anything about it...Stop looking so pleased!” she admonished with a halfhearted frown, and Fenris tried but failed to keep the grin off of his face.


	17. Chapter 17

“...and Merrill fell into the harbor again, which is mildly interesting but not surprising,” finished Hawke, leaning back in the visitor’s chair, her legs propped up on the table between her and Bethany.

“ _ Again?” _ giggled Bethany, eyes crinkled with amusement.

“I’m trying to get Varric to keep her from even going to the docks,” sighed Hawke. “He’s the only one she listens to, these days.”

“How’s Mother?”

“Hasn’t she come to see you every other day?” Hawke asked, trying not to frown.

“Yes, but she’s always so artificially cheery here. She even said ‘good day’ to the Knight-Captain once.”

“She didn’t recognize him?” snorted Hawke.

“Well, he does have that awful facial hair now…” Bethany and Hawke both dissolved into muffled laughter, glancing at Cullen through the window. “He has treated me very well, though,” Bethany added, a fond smile gracing her face.

“He better be,” Hawke muttered, unconsciously rubbing her shoulders.

“Why do you keep doing that?” asked Bethany, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Slept on it wrong,” Hawke answered breezily. “Mother is...still very upset with me. I’m doing my best to play nice, though. Do you remember the Viscount’s son, Seamus? She’s making me go to some kind of gross noble  _ event _ for his birthday.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Bethany wistfully, and Hawke felt the fragile inner peace she had tried to maintain fracture.

“You were supposed to be the one doing this, you know,” she remarked somewhat bitterly. “You’re the social butterfly. I know Mother wishes every day that I had been taken and not you, and I have to agree with her. You don’t deserve this. It isn’t fair.”

“Lena, I’ve known for a long time that this would be a possibility. And as much as I miss the outside, the freedom, I feel like I’m really making a difference here. I can help you from in here---I can keep everyone calmed down. We didn’t have anyone in the Circle before.”

“It’s still not fair. I hate this, I  _ hate _ that your life has been---has been stolen away like this, that I let this happen---”

“Sister, life isn’t fair. It’s not fair to you, so why should it be fair to me? You couldn’t have stopped this. I expected this. It is not your fault. And it’s not the end, my life hasn’t been stolen away---it’s just different. Now, stop crying, you look like a radish and we still want Cullen to be wrapped around your finger,” Bethany teased, wiping off Hawke’s face.

“A radish? That’s cold, even for you,” choked Hawke, smiling despite herself.

“A very pretty radish.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Luckily, all men and women alike agree that there’s nothing sexier than a vegetable.”

“Speaking of…” Bethany began, and Hawke raised an eyebrow. “How are things with Fenris?”

“Not really sure what Fenris has to do with a vegetable...” quipped Hawke dryly, and Bethany gave her a playful swat. “He’s fine. We’re...good. Friends. Good friends.”

“Things must really be going well if you can’t form cohesive sentences about him,” smirked Bethany, propping her chin up with her elbows.

“Oh, shut up,” Hawke growled, feeling her cheeks go hot. “Wait. You may have just given me an idea…”

“Sounds like you don’t really want me to shut up, then,” winked Bethany.

 

Once she had made it to The Hanged Man, Hawke deftly slipped between staggering patrons, making her way to Varric’s suite. Inside, she found Fenris, Anders, Merrill, and Varric seated around a table, knee-deep (or waist-deep, in Varric’s case) in a game of wicked grace. She went to pull up a chair, but Merrill stopped her, jumping up from her seat between Anders and Fenris.

“Hawke, will you play for me? I’m going to go get some milk,” she said brightly.

“Sure,” answered Hawke automatically, taking the proffered cards and the vacant seat. “Wait, Merrill? Milk? You’re not getting it from here, are you? Merrill??”

Naturally, the elf was already gone.

Fenris and Varric groaned as Anders dragged the pile of gold to his corner.

“Your turn, Merrill,” Varric grumbled, not looking up from his cards.

“I’m not sure we should trust you with Bianca anymore if your eyesight is this bad,” Hawke snorted, laying down a knight of roses and drawing a song of temerity.

All three men jumped at the sound of her voice, surprised.

“Hawke! We weren’t expecting you tonight,” said Anders, giving her a side hug (and, unbeknownst to him, a look at his cards).

“Merrill hasn’t even been here, it’s been me the whole time,” she deadpanned.

“Seriously?” asked Anders, paling slightly. She was about to laugh when she heard a whisper in her ear.

“Liar.”

She turned to Fenris, hiding her pleasure under mock indignation.

“Such bold accusations! I hope you have evidence to back them up,” she replied, looking up at him and widening her eyes in innocence. His mossy eyes glimmered with amusement, and he prepared a retort, but was cut off by Varric:

“Yeah, yeah, Merrill, Hawke, Andraste, doesn’t change the fact that Anders is kicking my ass, so get a move on and  _ play _ , Broody.” After sharing a brief look with Hawke, Fenris drew a card and discarded, making it Varric’s turn.

“What brings you here?” Fenris asked, sorting through his cards with a slight frown.

“Not happy to see me?” 

“I’m always happy to see you,” he murmured, and her heart was warm and achy.

“How many of those have you had?” teased Hawke, inclining her head towards his tankard. He rolled his eyes in response, playfully nudging her with his elbow. “I’m actually here to ask a favor of you,” she admitted softly into his ear. “I’ll make it up to you, whatever you want.”

“Anything?” he asked, voice low and dark.

“Anything,” she repeated, matching his gaze. He looked at her for a moment, and she found it hard to swallow.

“Win me this game,” he whispered in her ear with a smirk.

“But you don’t even know what the favor is yet!”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay, but you have to go along with me,” she sighed, already formulating a plot. He nodded subtly, and she pretended to look at his drink while she surveyed his cards. Cursing just loud enough for the others to hear, Varric completed his turn, and Anders prepared his hand. With a loud sigh, Hawke reached for Fenris’s tankard and downed it in one swig, feeling two pairs of eyes on her.

“Hawke, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Anders asked, smiling slightly.

“Oh, relax, mother, it’s just wine. And besides, I haven’t gotten  _ that _ drunk since---”

“---the last time you played wicked grace?” finished Varric, actually looking at her over his cards for once. Hawke held out her hand dramatically and stood, still holding the tankard.

“Pause! I’m getting more. Who wants more?” she asked, her smile dazzling, and gathered up the rest of the empty tankards, catching a glimpse of Varric’s hand as she did.

“You’re in an awfully good mood tonight,” Varric observed suspiciously.

“And why shouldn’t I be? I’m not at home with my mother, although you people are acting unnervingly maternal.”

“Fair enough,” Varric conceded, sneaking one last narrow glance before she left the room.

Taking the empty tankards up to the bar, Hawke caught Norah’s attention.

“Can you refill these with ale and these with wine?”

“Sure, love,” answered Norah, bored. Hawke presented her with three sovereigns, and she raised an eyebrow.

“In fifteen minutes, would you bring two more tankards of only wine to me? And not mention any of this to anyone?” Norah mimed locking her lips, and Hawke grinned, taking the drinks back to the suite.

“Back!” she announced, making a point of already starting to drink the watered down wine before she even sat down. “I think I’m feeling lucky,” she said with a wink to Anders as she gave everyone their respective drinks, pausing before she sat down to take another swig.

“I think  _ I’m _ going to be tending to someone’s hangover tomorrow,” Anders sighed, and she reached over to plant a kiss on his forehead, sliding a card from the draw pile into her sleeve as he was distracted.

“We can think about tomorrow tomorrow, now play!” she coaxed, sliding her hand from her back pocket and slipping the extra card into it. After finding the remaining serpents Fenris needed to win this hand, she slipped them into her back pocket, then slid her hand under the table, tapping his thigh twice. Once she knew she had his attention, she turned toward Anders, giving him access to take and replace the cards with lesser ones. She goaded Anders on, giving Fenris time to act, and she felt the barest brush of his fingers against her lower back.

Hawke continued this throughout the next few rounds, making sure to pay attention to where the angel of death had to be. Just on time, Norah came in, making everyone turn, and she slid the card from the draw pile up her right sleeve, covering a fake sneeze with the crook of her elbow and hiding a grin when she saw she had guessed correctly.

“No, Norah, you don’t have to walk all the way over here!” Hawke said a little too loudly, and she quickly got out of her chair and intercepted her. Walking back to her seat with both mugs, she purposefully sat down too clumsily, squawked, and simultaneously knocked over the chair and fell out of it, spilling both tankards all over herself and smacking her head on the floor.

As predicted, Fenris immediately moved to help her up, grabbing her hands with his, and she slid the card from her sleeve to his palm. He shook his head at her and set her back in her seat while Anders fussed over her and Varric laughed heartily.

“Oh, it’s okay, Anders, I’m really fine,” she insisted, giggling. “You’re always telling me I have a hard head…”

“I think we’re cutting you off,” he scolded, trying not to smile.

“I agree,” rumbled Fenris, drawing from the pile. As he discarded the angel of death, laying down his hand to reveal his set of four serpents, everyone groaned. Varric sighed as he pushed the pot over to Fenris, who sat back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking.

 

“I have to say, the wine was a nice touch,” Fenris chuckled down at Hawke, whose arm was in his as they walked back to Hightown.

“You know me---I can’t do anything halfway. Full measures only,” she snorted.

“Now, what do you need of me?” he asked, and she looked confused for a moment.

“Oh, the favor! Remember when there was that whole explosive business with Javaris and the Arishok?”

“Unfortunately,” he groused, and she laughed, throwing her head back.

“And you remember that you totally and completely impressed me, the Arishok, and everyone else within earshot with your knowledge of Qunari and the Qun and stuff?” she continued, still gazing up at him. He smirked.

“You were impressed?” he teased. She sighed melodramatically, then continued.

“I was wondering if you could...teach me. Not all of it, if you don’t want to, just some of it.”

“Of course,” he replied without a second thought, and she stopped them.

“Really??” Hawke beamed, and he almost laughed at how excited she was. They were both at least a little drunk, certainly buzzed, and everything felt warm and light and somewhat absurd.

“Really,” he assured her, and continued their walk to her estate. She gave a little whoop, and he did laugh, amused.

“What prompted this?” he asked, curious, and she paused, thoughtful.

“I need to impress a boy,” she declared.

It was his turn to stop.

“Pardon?”

“Seamus Dumar. He’s having some sort of nameday thing for the nobles that my mother is forcing me to go to, and I won’t want to talk with any of them, but since we’ve, you know, met, and I know he’s got strong feelings about the Qunari, I figured maybe if I could talk to him from a place of knowledge, the night...might not be a total waste,” she managed, seeming somewhat embarrassed.

“I see,” responded Fenris, the previous warmth replaced with a swirl of uncomfortable, possessive feelings. “Are you intending to...court him?”

“What?” Hawke squawked, stopping them again.

At this rate, it would be Saturnalia before they made it to the manor.

He raised his eyebrows at her, and she scrambled for words.

“NO, no,  _ no, _ I am not. He’s a boy, not a man, he’s got to be, what, seventeen?”

“I suppose you’ll find out at the event,” he reminded her, embarrassed at how relieved he was.

“Even if...even  _ if _ he was older, he would not be the person I would court. If I were courting anyone,” she stammered, and they continued walking, questions forming like a swarm around Fenris’s mind. They walked through Hightown in silence, still linked at the arm, and he was hopeful, afraid, curious, cynical, wondering what she had meant.

_ Did she have someone in mind? _

Not Varric, probably not Isabela, not Aveline...possibly Anders. They were always touching---just tonight, he had hugged her and she had kissed him (on the forehead, but still)---and it was  _ affectionate _ touching, not necessary touching…

_ But she wasn’t leaning on Anders right now. _

As they approached her door, she turned to face him, and he couldn’t help it.

“Why do you kiss Anders?” he blurted, already kicking himself for asking. He didn’t want to know, but he  _ did _ , he had to. She stared at him in surprise.

“Huh?”

“Anders, you...and he...never mind, I shouldn’t have asked,” he murmured, already retreating. He stilled when he felt the gentle pressure of Hawke’s hand on his elbow.

“Because he kisses me,” she answered, those midnight eyes drowning him. “Anders is more physical with his friendship, with his affection, and so am I, but it’s just kisses on the forehead, it’s more friendly than…” she trailed off, lost in thought.

“Fenris, do you want me to kiss you?”

**_Yes._ **

“What do you want?” he breathed, disbelieving. Her cheeks, already pink from the alcohol, darkened, and her lips parted.

“I want to kiss you,” Hawke whispered, face bare with tenderness.

“I want you to kiss me,” he nearly growled back, and his arms were around her waist, her arms around his neck, and as she stretched up to him, he leaned down to her, fully expecting her to kiss him on the forehead. 

And she did.

She pressed her warm lips to the furrow of his brow, and he felt the markings there alight, his eyes closed, overwhelmed by the feel of her against him, of the undeniable mark she was leaving on him, because she  _ wanted  _ to, and he wanted her to, surrounded by her scent and the long lines of her body. She cupped his cheekbone with one of her hands, her slim fingers stroking his hair, and he opened his eyes to find her looking at him, their noses almost touching---

And she kissed him again, longer, warmer, her heart hammering faster to match his, her soft lips brushing his cheek.

After what seemed like both an eternity and a fraction of a second, she settled back onto her feet, swaying a little, an endearing grin on her face. 

“Maybe Merrill was right,” she murmured, and he cocked his head at her.

“Right about what?” he asked suspiciously, but she was looking at him with wide eyes, a hand clapped over her mouth.

“Oh, Maker, we forgot about Merrill!”


	18. Chapter 18

“This is really, really not good,” muttered Varric as they journeyed Smuggler’s Cut in search of Javaris.

“Can we keep it to just one ‘really’ for now? My heart can only take so much,” Hawke sighed dramatically. “Besides, which part? The ongoing conflict with the Qunari, the possibility of deadly poison released in Kirkwall, or the fact that we have to interact with that skeevy bastard again?”

“None of them. One of those assholes put a scratch on Bianca.”

“I stand corrected,” Hawke replied dryly. “This is really,  _ really _ not good.”

“Forgive me if I’m not more concerned by the poisoning part,” cut in Aveline, rolling her shoulders in frustration. “Should we be looking into a possible antidote before we bother with Javaris?”

“I’d be amazed if there was a single person in Kirkwall without horns that had even  _ heard  _ of the term ‘saar-qamek’,” pointed out Fenris grimly. “I’ve seen it at work in Seheron: our best bet is to try and trace it before it gets released.”

 

“Javaris!” Hawke greeted brightly, pulling her dagger from the skull of the failed assassin. “It’s been a while.”

“You?” squawked the dwarf in surprise, peering at her from behind his cowering hands. “Granny’s garters, she would hire  _ you _ . You know what? I’ve had it. Go ahead. Take my head back to that elf on a pike---I need the damn rest,” he spluttered, hands going to his hips.

“As eternally as that idea delights me, I believe we’re not quite on the same page yet,” Hawke remarked, cleaning her blade in the sand as she cocked her head at Javaris. “What elf?”

“You...you don’t know?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Look, I don’t have what you think I do---you and I have both been outplayed by a bitch-born elf with a bad case of the crazies. The Qunari sent you, didn’t they?”

Hawke nodded, frown deepening, and Aveline began to pace behind them.

“I just managed to slip her, hire some  _ very _ effective bodyguards and make it out here, and now here you are. Great.” He began to search the bodies, removing anything of value as he muttered curses under his breath.

“Do you at least have any idea where she is now?” Hawke asked, rubbing at her forehead.

“Just because  _ you’re  _ blind as a nug doesn’t mean I am. I had a tail on her, she’s in Lowtown. Now, as fun as this has been, I’m getting the hell out of here. Don’t bother keeping in touch.”

 

“Any advice?” Hawke asked Fenris as they hurried back to Kirkwall, Aveline marching tirelessly ahead of them while Varric trailed behind.

“You mean other than ‘don’t breathe the poison gas’?” he deadpanned, casting a look over his shoulder at Varric. 

“He’s more of a sprinter---he’ll get his third wind eventually,” Hawke assured him. “But if, say, one couldn’t avoid coming into contact with it, is there anything to be done?”

“Why are we even talking about this?” Fenris retorted suspiciously as they approached the docks.

“I just have a bad feeling about this. Do you think a scarf would help? Or maybe---”

“Hawke,” he growled, “breathing in saar-qamek makes the victim suffer agonizing pain and then die, usually after they lose their minds. You are  _ not _ going to---”

She was already ripping off the tail of her tunic as they ran.

“Hawke, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Fenris, agonizing death,” she panted. “There goes Varric.”

The dwarf raced past them, catching up with Aveline.

 

Naturally, an entire block of Lowtown had already been flooded.

“Stand aside, we’ll take this from here,” barked Aveline to the guard in front of the gate (who was looking a bit green himself).

“Someone should go get Anders,” Hawke said, peering beyond the gate into the hazy green mess before them. “I think there are civilians in there.”

“Aye,” the guard confirmed, “but they’ve gone mad, attacking each other. Never seen anything like it.”

“Where is the gas coming from?” interrogated Aveline.

“I’ll go get Blondie,” sighed Varric, “and then after this I am not running for another month at least.”

“Barrels, from the looks of it,” answered the guard with a cough.

“This your man’s first time seeing blood or do we need to send him to a healer?” Hawke murmured to Aveline, who was shaking her head. “Hey,” Hawke called, addressing the guard. “Do you happen to be in agonizing pain?”

“Really, I just feel a bit faint…”

“He’s fine,” announced Fenris, eyes not leaving Hawke’s newly determined face.

“I’m going in there, I’ll try and send out any civilians that don’t try and murder me---”

“The hell you are,” he snarled, desperately grasping for an argument that would work.

“Innocent people are dying  _ right now _ ,” she countered. “Worst comes to worst, Anders will get here, but they don’t have time to wait.” She fished the makeshift scarf out of her pocket and prepared to tie it around her face. “I’ll keep it nonlethal with anyone unarmed, if I can,” she called to Aveline, who nodded in approval from her position by the guard.

Fenris grabbed her arm. “This is suicide. I’m not going to let you do it alone.”

Her eyes sparkled, and she tilted her head at him with bare fondness and no small amount of possible insanity.

He barely felt her wrap the fabric around his face, and she had vaulted over the gate before he could scold her.

“ _ Fenhedis!” _

\--------

When they had finally dragged the last unconscious civilian from the alley, Hawke slid to sit on the ground, her forehead slumping to her lap.

“Hawke, are you all right?” called Anders from his makeshift clinic, surrounded by coughing or passed out people. 

“Not dying,” she answered, and he went back to healing the elven girl he was closest to.

“Are you in pain?” Fenris asked, concerned, sitting down next to her as he took off his “mask”.

“I’m probably going to vomit and I have a headache, but I don’t…” She trailed off, looking paler by the second, then delicately retched onto the pavement.

“You were lucky,” Fenris groused, putting a comforting hand between her shoulder blades as she moaned. “If we had arrived when the barrels were still full…”

“I can hold my breath for a really long time,” she argued, eyes watery. “Besides, I only really started breathing it in after we closed the first one, and by then, it was evaporating anyway…”

“Excellent work, you two,” greeted Aveline, having done what she could for the victims. “Anders thinks most everyone that didn’t end up coming to blows is going to make a full recovery. I’ve already sent a guardsman to notify the Viscount.”

“I suppose I should be the one to tell the Arishok,” Hawke sighed, resting her head in her hands.

“I don’t think there’s any rush---surely he’ll figure it out,” Aveline remarked dryly. Hawke turned to Fenris, expectant.

“You’re the expert.”

“You need to rest,” he answered, eyes narrowing. “It can wait until the morning. Get yourself looked at and then I’ll walk you back to the estate.”

“Yes, Ser,” she replied with a mock salute, and he rolled his eyes.

  
  


Leandra answered the door, frowning at the sight of her slightly green daughter leaning on Fenris.

“Lena? Are you drunk?”

“Yes. Very,” Hawke declared, scooting past her mother with Fenris, not missing the look of disapproval. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Afternoon.” As they scaled the stairs, Leandra shook her head, closing the door.

Hawke shut her bedroom door behind them with a sigh, then climbed onto her bed, her feet dangling from the side as she worked at the laces on her boots. Fenris said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, what? She doesn’t want to hear it, anyway.”

“You’ve put your life at risk for the sake of others, and you’re letting her disparage you.”

“Disparaging me is one of her favorite pastimes,” she deadpanned, pulling her armor off to reveal the ruined tunic underneath. She examined it wearily, picking at the loose threads. He grabbed another one from the back of the chair beside the bed and handed it to her, sitting down.

“Why?” She took off the remains of her shirt and threw it on the fire, and he wondered if he should avert his eyes from the sight of her half naked---her torso bare save for a breastband.

“My mother’s life as a noble in Kirkwall ended when she found out I existed,” she began, maintaining his gaze as she slipped on the fresh tunic. “Naturally, she  _ really _ wanted a boy, and my father  _ really  _ wanted a mage, so when I turned out to be…” She gestured at herself with both hands, and he got the picture.

“But that’s not your fault,” he reasoned, and she shrugged.

“As soon as my father was certain I didn’t have an ounce of magical aptitude, they tried again, and finally got what they both wanted. My mother had the little boy she’d always dreamed of, and my father had a pet protege. Now, Carver’s dead, my father’s dead, Bethany’s imprisoned, and my mother has...me.”

Fenris frowned, brow furrowing. Hawke had come into his life like a bolt from the blue, and now he simply could not imagine it without her---couldn’t imagine resenting her, even merely disliking her, and he wasn’t even her family. Despite not having any first-hand knowledge of what families were supposed to be like, it didn’t sit well with him.

“It’s really okay,” she murmured, seeing the look on his face. “I was the one who led us right into the darkspawn horde---if I’d had us go the other way, maybe Carver wouldn’t have died. She’s not entirely wrong to blame me for that. And I wasn’t here to stop the templars from cottoning on to Bethany, and I should’ve had us be more careful, anyway...you’d think I’d learn,” she gave a little huff, a bitter sort of smile twisting at her mouth.

“You can’t believe that,” he countered. “You weren’t at all responsible---there were forces out of your control, it’s not  _ fair _ for her to think that---”

“It might not be, but it is what it is. I wish I’d done a thousand things differently; there’s nothing I can do about it now but try to be better today. And it’s easier for both of us to let her believe I was getting plastered instead of exposing myself to a rare strain of Qunari poison in a Lowtown alley.” She laid back, chin resting on her hand as she gazed at him, and he digested what she said.

“It’s not fair to you,” he repeated, and her face grew solemn and gently sad.

“It’s not as though life has been fair to you.”

“No, but you---you’ve made  _ my _ life better, made so many other lives better---that should count for something.”

“I’ve certainly ended a lot of lives,” she murmured grimly, but took his gauntleted hand in hers. “I’ve got you, so it does count for something---the Maker or the universe or whatever hasn’t been cruel to me. Varric says that our friends are the family we choose---and I’m lucky to have you in mine.” He swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the statement---he had a family, now--- _ she was his family _ \---he was part of hers.

“Hawke,” he said, voice rough, “why did you put the mask on me?”

“You know why,” she answered quietly, cocking her head. She stifled a yawn, and he was hit with a wave of guilt for keeping her up.

“You need your rest: I should go,” he apologized, and she smiled crookedly at him.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

“I expect I’ll see you in the morning.” He stood to go, hand sliding from hers, and quickly, before he lost his nerve, pressed his lips to her forehead, leaving before he could see her reaction.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Hawke wearily plopped into the empty seat by Isabela in Varric’s suite, an enormous sigh escaping her.

“Rough afternoon?” Isabela asked, not looking up from her copy of  _ The Lusty Andrastian Maid. _

“Every time I talk to the Arishok, it takes a year off my life.” Biting her lip, Isabela shut the book, a hand coming up to twist at a piercing.

“That reminds me...there’s something I need to tell you.”

Hawke looked at her suspiciously.

“You fucked him, didn’t you? Is that why you avoid the docks like the Blight?”

“Not this time. You know the relic Castillon is looking for?”

“Your restitution for not being an ass?”

“I think the Qunari...may be interested in it,” Isabela blurted, and Hawke paused, thinking.

“Interested as in ‘I’m interested in Antivan wines’ or interested as in ‘I’m interested in killing anyone else who tries to get this thing’?”

“First of all, those are hardly mutually exclusive. But the second one.”

“Damn. That complicates things,” Hawke swore, resting her chin on her hand. “Well, killing Castillon is a lot easier than killing hundreds of trained warriors…”

“Yes, but---I don’t know. He has powerful friends,” Isabela countered almost nervously, and Hawke had never seen her so uncertain.

“Bela, you don’t need to worry,” Hawke soothed, stroking her back. “We can handle Castillon. Hell, we might be able to handle the Qunari if we play our cards right. I’m not going to let these assholes keep you from living your life.” Isabela sighed, setting her book down on the table and taking a long drink from her tankard.

“Ugh. I’m tired of talking about this: let’s do something fun.”

“All right, just one more thing, do you know what the relic is called? Fenris may have heard of it.”

“The only thing you need to ask Fenris is whether he’ll satisfy every demand of  _ your  _ Qun,” Isabela purred, and Hawke took a moment to bury her face in her palm.

“Right. Are we drinking or fighting?”

“Why not both?”

\-----------------

Hawke was supposed to have met Fenris at his mansion by now to collect him for a “misadventure”, but she was over half an hour late. Half concerned and half exasperated, he decided to go to the estate and collect her instead.

“Messere Fenris!” beamed Bodahn as he answered the door. “Always a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly, bending to scratch Sandor behind the ears, whose whole body was wiggling with excitement.

“They’re in the dining room---it’s a good thing help has arrived,” he half-whispered sheepishly. Raising an eyebrow, Fenris nodded, then proceeded to the source of the muffled conversation, mabari underfoot.

“Yes, Mother, I know that your decluttering is important, but I really need to---”

“I ask one favor of you, Lena, and you can’t even take care of it before you go out drinking with your friends. The upkeep of a house this large---”

“That you insisted we obtain,” Fenris heard Hawke bite under her breath.

“What did you say, young lady?”

“Good evening,” Fenris said loudly, trying not to smile as Hawke looked at him with barely bridled frustration in her eyes.

“Fenris! So good to see you,” Leandra greeted, followed by a death glare in Hawke’s direction. “Now, I know you kids have a night ahead of you, but I really need Lena to take care of some things before you head out.” Hawke winced as a large chest was deposited in her arms. “I don’t have dinner ready yet, but you’re welcome to stay---but I know Lena is chomping at the bit to get out.”

“Fine. I’ll sort out what I want and throw the rest in the bin on the way out,” Hawke said darkly, turning on her heel and heading up the stairs with her burden. Fenris inclined his head at Leandra, who gave a wave, and left to follow Hawke.

“That  _ woman _ ,” Hawke groaned as Fenris closed the bedroom door behind them, setting the chest on her bed. Sandor promptly jumped up beside it, sniffing eagerly.

“I take it she’s the reason you didn’t come and get me.”

“I’ve been trying to escape for ages. She’s on some kind of cleaning kick---I’ve been going through boxes from Lothering and before all day. ‘Lena, don’t you want to keep this for the children you’ll never have?’” she mimicked quite accurately, and he may have let his amusement show. “Apparently sorting out the contents of a dozen of these counts as one favor.”

“What’s in this one?” he asked, curious, and she shrugged.

“Probably what we managed to bring or recover from Lothering---I think I’ve gone through all the Amell stuff.” She popped it open and dug around, pulling out some dented daggers. “Wow, these are shit.” She threw them unceremoniously to the ground beside her and continued, and he moved to her side to help.

“A journal,” he announced, and she took it from him, reading the inside cover.

“Bethany’s. She’ll want it, even though I assume most of the entries are variants on ‘today absolutely nothing happened’ or ‘I managed to accidentally set Lena on fire again’.” He gave a huff of mirth as she handed it to Sandor, who set it gently on the bed beside him. She retrieved a ragged doll from the depths of the chest. 

“Ah, this is his,” she proclaimed, handing the sad mass to Sandor, who gleefully shook it in his mouth.

“This is...a rock?” Fenris asked, and Hawke examined it in confusion.

“Must have been Carver’s---maybe he got it from Ostagar. No sense in keeping it now, though.” She put it on the floor, albeit with gentleness.

“A shawl,” he continued, and she took it and folded it, laying it on the chair.

“My mother’s mother’s. Why Mother isn’t going through this herself is a mystery for the age.” They continued sorting through the various items, occasionally accompanied with some kind of strange explanation.

“Oh,  _ this _ is funny. Mother must have kept it,” she snorted, holding up what appeared to be a satin length of scarlet ribbon. Fenris took it and gave her a blank look.

“Is this a bookmark?”

“Hmmm. That’s actually a good use for it,” she praised, sifting through the few items left. “Here we go---this goes with it,” she announced, presenting a piece of metal the size of a rune. He brought it closer to his face, recognizing the insignia.

“This is familiar, but I can’t think of where I’ve seen it before.”

“There’s a giant painting of it on the foyer wall,” Hawke said, wrinkling her nose. “Courtesy of my mother. It’s the Hawke crest.”

“And this belongs with the bookmark because…”

“It’s one of those old-fashioned favors. Red---though my parents would call it something specific like crimson---is the house color.  _ That _ was intended for whomever was crazy enough to publicly court me.”

“To do what with?”

“Wear.” To his surprise, she took the ribbon from him and tied it around his wrist with a slightly complicated knot. “Like this. I’m not sure what’s supposed to be done with the crest, though I could probably ask my mother.” She patted the knot and straightened out a few creases, admiring her work, and then easily deconstructed it with her quick fingers.

He hoped she didn’t notice how hard he swallowed at the meaning of what she’d done.

“Shouldn’t Cullen have these?” he heard himself asking as he set them down next to the chest and reached for another item. Hawke let out an amused chuckle.

“Considering my parents hated him, no. Even though he went out of his way to be heartbreakingly polite to them. I assume my father would’ve been thrilled, had he been alive to see his disappearance.” They were relatively quiet for a moment as they saw to their task, Fenris pondering how docile Cullen was, even at present.

“Because he was a Templar?”

“Yes. My mother doesn’t really have anything against Templars, but she never disagreed with my father. And he made Carver consider being a Templar, which drove them crazy.”

“Here’s another journal.”

“Wow. We are definitely burning this,” she decided, making a face as she skimmed through the pages. Eventually, she handed it to Sandor, who promptly hopped off the bed and put it in the fireplace.

“Yours, or Carver’s?”

“Mine. Carver actually thought that writing wasn’t manly.  _ Writing. _ Though seeing as all I cared to write about was ridiculous and moony, he might’ve been better off.”

“‘Bethany set me on fire again today…’” he began, making his voice smooth and higher pitched like hers, and she actually burst into laughter, covering her mouth as her shoulders shook.

“Yes, but only in the more interesting ones. The rest was about Cullen or the lack thereof. Well, Stanton, anyway. Also some general teenaged whining. I hadn’t written in it for a  _ long  _ time even before we left Lothering.” Peering into the depths of the chest, she extracted some twenty-odd letters, bound together with twine. “Mother will definitely want these---again, I don’t see why she didn’t do this herself---and that’s all.”

They both turned at the sound of a distant knock.

“Aaaaand that’ll be Anders making sure I didn’t fall down the stairs and fatally maim myself,” she sighed, moving the curtains to look at the color of the sky. “Or the viscount himself got tired of waiting.”

“Messere Hawke?” called Bodahn. “You have visitors.” She opened the door.

“We’ll be right down, I just have to get this stuff and throw it away.”

“Allow me,” Bodahn offered, giving her a knowing look.

“Remind me to double your pay again.”

Neither of them noticed Fenris slip the favor into his pocket.


	20. Chapter 20

“Really, I can’t think of any,” Hawke insisted between chuckles as they trudged the uphill slope to the Bone Pit.

“Hawke, no one likes to read books where the hero isn’t funny,” Varric chided, shaking his head.

“I’m funny! Just not on command!”

“Wait, I have another one,” interjected Anders. “What do you call a Templar who’s afraid to fight?”

Hawke and Varric looked at each other, then shrugged.

“Ser Render.”

Varric roared with laughter as he scribbled in his notebook.

“That one was bad and you know it!” Hawke protested, though her own shoulders shook with giggles.

“At this rate, the book’s going to be about Anders…”

“What can I say?” Anders said airily, grinning deviously. Hawke shot a bitter pout at Fenris, who gave a mock shrug, eyes glittering.

“I could always rehash Isabela’s ‘red shirt’ joke…”

“Doesn’t count,” called Varric smugly. “Are we here about that weird plant?”

“Probably,” Hawke answered, gingerly transferring said plant into a jar, being careful not to touch it. “The herbalist needs some random stuff I can’t actually remember the specifics of, so we’re just going to take anything suspicious-looking. And Hubert says there are issues with the mine again, but the workers probably just left because he can’t resist being an ass to them…”

“The book should definitely be about Hawke,” began Anders, gaining himself a smirk from Hawke. “I would never get wrapped up in so many menial tasks without her…”

“You should call it ‘Anders and the Fifteenth Dockworker with Syphilis He Treated That Day’,” retorted Hawke, and they laughed.

“That book could technically also be about Isabela…” Anders said thoughtfully, dodging Hawke’s playful shove.

“Is that orichalcum?” interrupted Fenris, pointing at a silvery puddle under a wizened tree.

“Good eye,” Hawke praised, bending down to examine it. “Weird. I’ve never seen any above ground before.”

“Let me get it, Hawke,” Anders offered, drawing a syringe from his pack. “You really don’t want to get any of that in your system.”

“Why?” asked Varric, the rest of the party turning to look at him in disbelief.

“It’s a kind of poison,” started Fenris with a glance at Hawke.

“Do you not remember the second time Bela played Wicked Grace with us?” Hawke asked, hands on her hips. “When I accidentally took a drink of her tankard instead of mine?”

“Vaguely. Didn’t I win that time?” inquired Varric. Anders was quaking with laughter as he extracted the resource.

“Yes, you won by default, because once it kicked in, I ran the entire distance to the coast from Lowtown and flung myself into the Waking Sea, and Bela followed me to make sure I was all right.”

“This is starting to ring a bell---didn’t Rivaini throw out her entire flask after that? Dumped it off the docks the next day?” Varric asked, and Hawke nodded.

“And I sent Aveline after you, and she swam out, dragged you to the shore, threw you over her shoulder and took you back to Gamlen’s, absolutely sopping wet,” Anders chortled.

“An aphrodisiacal poison,” Fenris finished, clearly surprised (and entertained) by the story.

“It was before you found us,” Hawke explained.

“Praise Andraste for that,” Varric muttered, and Hawke gave him a look.

“I tried everything from health potions to eating raw elfroot to get the effects to wear off faster. Bethany walked into our room and caught me eating the leaves like a crazed rabbit. I was back to normal in an hour---I guess Isabela wasn’t expecting much out of the evening. And she was so apologetic---she almost swam out with me even though she was staggeringly drunk. And we’ve been like sisters ever since. I don’t know how she tolerated the taste: I thought I had downed acid. The results were worth it to her, I suppose.”

“And we’ve circled back to the dockworkers,” Varric sighed dreamily, making even Fenris break out into reserved laughter. They were finally nearing the mines, and, as they closed the last mile, Hawke’s brow furrowed.

“Do you smell that?”

“Smoke,” supplied Fenris, and they increased their pace.

The Bone Pit had lived up to its name before, but now it was annihilated. What little flora and fauna had peppered the surrounding sand was ablaze with tongues of blue-hot fire. Charred wagons were overturned; the corpses of workers and horses alike littered the ground.

“Shit,” Hawke cursed at the sight of the bodies, kneeling down to examine one. “Maybe some managed to make it inside---it looks like this happened days ago, the body’s cool enough to touch. But the trees---”

She was cut off by an impossibly loud shriek that clouded around them. The party turned, weapons out, looking for the source of the noise, but whatever had made it wasn’t close enough to be visible through the layer of smoke.

“I don’t think that was a dragonling,” Anders said rather feebly.

“I’m not sure we should stick around and find out,” Varric remarked dryly.

“We could try and go in the mines, but if it follows, we’d be cornered, and any survivors might be killed,” Hawke reasoned, thinking quickly. “So long as it hasn’t seen us, we might be able to haul ass to Kirkwall, but if it knows where we are and follows…”

They winced as another squall shook the ground beneath them.

“What even  _ is  _ it?” shouted Anders over the caterwauling.

“Is that really what you’re concerned about right now?” growled Fenris.

“Okay,” Hawke yelled, voice strained with fear, “we don’t take risks. We try and tire it out, and take frequent cover. No fire, no flammable grenades---Anders, your main concern is staying up, all right?”

Anders nodded in confirmation, and there was a great shove of wind that dropped them to their knees.

They scrabbled for purchase as the assault continued, wave after wave of it, and the smoke began to clear, revealing what could only be a High Dragon above them.

“ _ Fenhedis!” _

“You two take cover!” Hawke cried to Varric and Anders, grabbing Fenris by the wrist and dragging him behind her towards a formation of rock large enough to protect them. He shifted his greatsword to the other hand, wrapping his arm around her waist, and used a lyrium pulse to pull them to safety.

“Why am I always forgetting you can do that?” she panted, gasping for air, and he looked as though a smartass answer was on the way, but the dragon, having noticed their retreat, circled closer to them, opening her jaws to let loose a round of white-hot flame. Hawke threw down her bow and crouched as close to the wall as she could press herself, trying to keep herself from having a heart attack as Fenris did the same, his chest to her back and his arms shielding their heads.

“I believe this is the part where we pray,” he quipped dryly in her ear, and, despite the fact that they were definitely going to be barbecued, Hawke choked out a laugh of absurdity. The ground beneath them felt as unstable as water as the dragon landed, and Hawke clutched at Fenris’s shoulder even as the spikes on his pauldron broke through the skin left uncovered by her  archer’s glove.

“Hawke??” Varric bellowed once the quaking stopped.

“We’re good! You?”

“Queasy,” shouted Anders, and as relief coursed through her, Hawke knew they had to act fast.

“Varric, her wings!”

“Copy that!”

Grabbing her bow and nocking an arrow, she peered around the rock to evaluate the lizard’s new position, then lined up a shot close to the top edge of the right wing, hoping it would cause a tear. She barely heard the tell-tale sound of Bianca’s crank above the roaring inferno. The arrow hit, making the creature roar in annoyance, but didn’t go all the way through, remaining embedded. Undeterred, she continued to fire, but the flesh of the dragon’s wings was impossibly thick.

“I have to get closer,” she told Fenris, retreating behind the rock once more, and his jaw visibly clenched as the beast gave a wail. 

_ Maybe Bianca is having more luck. _

“Be careful,” he warned, and she nodded, slipping into stealth and slinking out of cover towards higher ground. To the west, she saw Varric and Anders peeking out from behind what cover they could find---Varric loaded bolt after bolt as Anders appeared to be casting ice magic at the dragon. They both unceremoniously flung themselves to the ground as the she lashed at them with a stream of flame, her unblinking eyes searching for the source of the nuisance. A nearby cliff in the sand where a mining cart used to sit gave a fifteen foot advantage, and Hawke quickly scaled it.

Hawke shot her again, successfully piercing the wing this time, but the dragon simply flinched, redoubling her efforts to find Anders and Varric, plodding towards them on claws taller than Hawke.

_ Shit. _

Hawke kept shooting the wing, reducing the upper border to lace, but the dragon didn’t turn, and as she began to claw at the protrusion of sand and rock that Hawke knew concealed her friends, she took a deep breath and lined up a shot with one huge green eye, throwing her bow on her back and readying to run the second she loosed the arrow.

The resulting keen nearly knocked her off balance, and her hands went to her ears.

The dragon turned around, flexing as though ready to take flight, but stumbled in pain as the air honeycombed her wings.

_ I get the feeling this is going to hurt. _

The dragon inhaled as though it was going to suck the entire Bone Pit into its lungs, and Hawke threw herself off of the small cliff just before it was bathed in flame, landing with a roll and sprinting towards where Fenris hid, extremely aware of the fire just behind tracing her path.

_ Damn. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. _

“GET TO SAFETY!” she screamed at the other three as she closed the distance, finally diving onto her stomach behind the rocks as she felt unbearable heat creep up her ankles. She wheezily rolled onto her side and prepared to stamp out the flames.

But there were none.

She felt herself being dragged backwards and gave Fenris a reproachful look.

“You were supposed to find better cover!”

“ _ You  _ weren’t supposed to take risks,” he growled as he brought them to the wall. “I don’t know how you didn’t break an ankle after that fall.”

Hawke examined her unburnt boots just as she heard Varric grunt with effort.

“I know how,” she realized, face paling.

“Blondie’s down!”

 

\-----------------

“That  _ motherfucker _ !” Hawke swore, eyes round with fear as she got to her feet. “Shit, shit, shit, SHIT! He had  _ one  _ job!”

Fenris rose after her, taking the sword off of his back and regarding her with agitated confusion. She caught the look on his face.

“I should have hurt myself, and I should be on fire, but he put the barrier on the wrong person,” she moaned, palm anxiously clutching her forehead. “That  _ ass _ should have been worrying about himself  _ like I specifically asked him to. _ ”

There was a peculiar high-pitched noise, and Varric came running behind the rocky wall, panting.

“He’s gonna be all right---the tail whacked him into a boulder and he hit his head. I barely saw it coming in time to get out of the way. Dragon is after a cherry bomb. I dragged him into a bush behind that boulder.”

“Thank the Maker,” Hawke replied, but continued to flex her hands in agitation.

“He’s fine, Hawke,” Fenris reassured, brow furrowed.

“We can’t wait her out, now,” she explained, looking up at him with a hint of panic in her voice. “We have to kill her as fast as we can, because if someone gets hurt, all we have are potions until we make it back to Kirkwall.”

A loud snarl punctuated her statement.

“Varric, what grenades do you have?” The dwarf unzipped a pouch on his belt to reveal three glass orbs---yellow, red, and black. Hawke took the black one, nodding silently to whatever plot was hatching in her head, and slipped it in with her arrows.

“Okay. Try and get her other eye. Fenris, if you can do it without getting hurt, I need you to distract her while I get up high enough---”

“High enough to what?” both of them asked suspiciously.

“Just trust me. Try and keep her from breathing fire---she usually takes a huge breath before, plenty of time to interrupt. And please, please be careful,” she begged.

\------------------------

Again, Hawke found herself climbing up the cliff, but she was much more nervous this time, struggling to keep a hold on the crevasses. She could hear Varric firing, followed by a war cry from Fenris, and pulled herself up, taking her bow in one hand and the grenade in the other. This time, she was close enough to hear the jarring squelch of the eye being punctured, and she gave another glance to the blades at the top and bottom of her bow.

_ All right---it’s hero time. _

“Hey, dumbass!” she yelled, and the dragon stopped flailing her head in agony and began to take in a breath----

Only to flinch again as Fenris managed to hack off a toe, stumbling forward towards Hawke with her mouth wide open. 

Keeping one leg on the ground, Hawke used all her weight to drive the top of her bow into the roof of the dragon’s mouth, her other foot wedged under the tongue. Predictably, the dragon bit down, forcing the top blade even deeper and the bottom one into her tongue.

_ Now to make my exit. _

“Guys, fall back!”

Shifting back herself, Hawke started to retreat, but the thrash of the dragon’s head threw her off balance and the bow sank even further as she bit down harder, massive teeth trying to close (and nearly succeeding). Grabbing the grip of the bow and using it like a bit to keep her still, Hawke extracted herself through the shrinking space, tossing in the pitch grenade after she had escaped.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she shouted breathlessly, retreating until she was out of the range of the questing head. “Did that hurt?”

Enraged, the dragon drew in massive amounts of air, but just as the fire started roiling up her esophagus, the sticky coat of pitch ignited. Unable to open her mouth to let it out before it could damage her (and unable to close it completely to put out the fire), the dragon let loose a final sonorous gargle, falling to her side as she struggled to breathe.

\-------------

For a moment, all Fcnris could do was stare at the gigantic corpse.

A mixture of blue-black gore and flaming pitch oozed sluggishly from the dragon’s mouth, and a sickly glow emitted from within the snakelike neck as it twitched its last. Having retreated to his original position behind the wall of rock, both he and Varric were simply gazing, dumbfounded.

“Andraste’s dimpled ass,” Varric said faintly. “I don’t know if I can even exaggerate this. Two dragons? A wyvern? No arrows?”

After he gave the obligatory weak chuckle, he turned to see where Hawke had gotten to. She was wearily trodding over to them, taking the longer (and safer) route down from her vantage point, absolutely drenched in the blood of the dragon, a hand at a stitch in her side.

“Still have all your limbs?” she croaked as she sat with her back against a boulder, visibly drained.

“Hawke...that was the most badass thing I have ever seen. And Bianca once took four Carta members out with a single arrow,” Varric quipped, clapping her on the shoulder with a beaming grin on his face. Hawke winced and gave a laugh, and Fenris saw an unusual flash of sobriety in Varric’s eyes.

“Well, try and remember it all so you can put it in your diary when we get back. Would you give Anders a potion and try and get him up?”

“Shit! I totally forgot,” Varric cursed, breaking into a steady jog. Hawke watched him go, face unnaturally white, and Fenris got the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

“Hawke?” he murmured, sinking to a crouch beside her.

“Everything is going to be all right,” she told him, which, naturally, made his fears skyrocket.

“What do you mean?”

Grimacing, she shifted the hand that still clutched at her side, revealing a deep gash and no small amount of crimson blood.

_ She was seriously wounded. _

“ _ Fasta vass _ ,” he panicked, making her lips turn up with the phrase even as she replaced her hand, pushing harder than before.

“It didn’t break through,” she tried to soothe him, but he was floundering, hands frozen uselessly between them.

_ His family was seriously wounded. _

“Hawke, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to help---”

“Can you see Varric?” she asked, and he stood, a hand over his eyes.

“He’s slapping him,” he reported, and Hawke gave a stilted eye roll.

“That should make you feel better,” she cracked feebly, and he shifted to his knees again, giving her a dark look. “The gauntlets---”

He hurried to remove them, struggling to keep his hands from shaking.

_ She was going to bleed out right in front of him and there was nothing he could do but watch. _

“When I move my hand,” she began, and he nodded, his bare hand already moving to meet hers at the border of her ribs, already being coated in warm red. Inhaling roughly, she slid her hand up, and he tried to keep calm as he cupped the wound, blood threatening to spill between his fingers with every beat of her heart.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris rasped as she exhaled sharply, but she shook her head.

“Harder.”

He swallowed hard as he clamped tighter, watching her lips thin from discomfort.

“Almost…”

Hesitantly grasping her shoulder for leverage, he squeezed until he felt the end of a rib move. Sweat gleamed on Hawke’s brow and her eyes were screwed shut. Realizing something was digging into his hand, Fenris looked down in dismay at the rent edge of her breastplate.

“Your armor---”

“I thought so,” she sighed, leaning her head back against the rock. 

There was a distinct dragging noise, and Varric appeared, one hand on Bianca and the other on the hood of an absolutely unconscious Anders.

“He’s not waking up. If only Rivaini were here…” His face was solemn upon seeing Hawke’s deteriorated state, and he put Bianca on his back, crouching on her other side. 

“What are the odds of you singlehandedly getting him back to Kirkwall and getting her to bring him out of it?” Hawke groaned.

“Slim, by myself, but---” he tapped the crossbow “I won’t be by myself.” 

“Kirkwall is nearly an hour’s  _ sprint _ away,” Fenris pointed out.

_ And he wasn’t sure Hawke would last that long. _

“Get the bandages,” she instructed, and Varric began patting the zonked mage down. “Inside pocket on the left…”

Varric produced an impressively sized roll of linen.

“Would you prefer taking Anders back?” Hawke asked Fenris, seeming to have trouble keeping her gaze on him.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“For the best,” Varric panted, replacing Bianca’s post on his shoulders with Anders. “I’m a better runner than healer.”

“You can say that again,” Hawke bit, pointing to a scar on her face.

“I don’t know what I should do,” Fenris repeated, but Hawke patted him on the arm holding her together.

“I do. I’ll walk you through it.”

“Here goes nothing,” sighed Varric, Bianca in hand. “If either of you die, I’m going to kill you,” he threatened over his shoulder as he ran.

“You should take a potion,” Fenris realized, but Hawke once again shook her head.

“Not yet. It would heal around the armor and then tear open again once I take it off,” she explained, hands feeling for the ties on her pauldrons. He used his free hand to help her slide them off, flooded with a sense of uselessness as she winced from the movement. Her current breastplate consisted of four parts joined at the sternum in the front and the spine in the back, straps holding the sides over her leather jerkin.

“Just cut it,” she breathed, slipping a knife from her boot, and he hacked at the straps on the left (uninjured) side as she used both hands to split the front plate. He knew she had to be in a massive amount of pain---made worse with every movement as the steel bent down over itself and into her tugged with it---but he had no idea how to relieve it, other than to work as fast as he could.

“Have to pull it down---if we pull it up, it’ll tear the gash. Once we get it off, I need you to roll up the jerkin---” she paused as she pulled the left side off and threw it in the sand, eyes watering, “I’ll put pressure on it, and then wrap the bandages as tightly as you can without tearing them.”

“This is going to hurt,” he warned lamely, and she nodded, so he yanked the metal down and out of her the second he moved his hand, torn to pieces by the ragged groan that escaped her as her hand fluttered to the injury. 

“Stay with me,” he urged, folding the jerkin up as she used both of her shaking hands to try and stanch the bleeding. The bare skin of her abdomen was so pale that it was almost translucent, and he could see the marbling of her lyrium blue veins where they weren’t smothered with gore.

_ So much blood, so much blood, how could anyone survive losing that much? _

When he had finished dressing the wound, he looked up at her for guidance, and the white pallor of her face and the unfocused glassiness of her eyes terrified him.

“Hawke? What now?” Fenris prompted, forcing steadiness into his voice.

“Potion,” she mumbled, and he uncorked one, carefully tipping it past her lips while he slipped his other hand behind her shoulder, keeping her from sagging. Her eyes closed as she slowly drank. He tried his best to brush away the loose hair that wasn’t glued to her face with blood.

_ Why couldn’t it have been him? _

“Need to get to clinic…”

He nodded, shifting to carry her when he realized his pauldrons were in the way.

“S’okay,” Hawke slurred quietly as he ripped them off in frustration. “Can’t feel my hands anyway.”

_ Why didn’t he ask to take point?  _

Guiding her hands to clasp around his neck, he picked her up as gingerly as he could, not missing her whine of distress at the movement.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of her head as he began to run, lyrium blazing.

\---------------------

She woke to the distinct sound of bickering.

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Maybe if you used your  _ eyes _ to mind your surroundings---”

“You’re such a bloody hypocrite. You’d have done the exact same.”

“I find that difficult to believe---”

Frowning, she groped for her stomach, feeling the strange need to inspect it.

“Shit,” groaned Hawke, having poked at the wound with her fingers.

“Maker have mercy!” Anders swore, and her hand was snatched away. She slivered open her eyes, blinking slowly. “Of course you’re already messing with it.”

“Still there,” she remarked, and he snorted.

“Not for long. I healed it partially, stitched it up, and healed it more. Bed rest for two days and then we can take out the sutures.” Another head popped into her line of sight, and she squinted, still trying to process being awake.

“Of course, you have  _ me _ to thank for all of it. Old Faithful here would still be out like a light if it weren’t for my good old---”

“Antivan alarm,” Hawke finished in time with Isabela. “You might have it worse than me, Anders.”

“I’m definitely going to have a headache for the next week,” he sighed. “Bloody dragons and their damn tails…”

“And teeth,” Hawke concurred, nonchalantly patting the area around the gash again.

“How’s our hero?” came a new voice, followed by the sound of the door swinging shut.

“Much better than the last time we saw each other,” assured Hawke. “What’s the prognosis for your singed chest hair?”

“It’s looking grim at the moment, but Bianca and I are keeping the faith,” Varric declared. “Did you lose these, Broody?”

Hawke immediately tried to sit up.

“What the hell, Hawke?” squawked Anders. “Andraste’s ashes, you’re taking years off my life.  _ Slowly, _ or you’ll hurt yourself…” He guided her into a sitting position, scowling at Isabela when she cheekily flopped down beside her.

“Fenris? Have you been here this whole time?” Hawke asked, confused. She studied his appearance as Varric forked over his gauntlets and pauldrons. He looked exhausted yet wary, his jaw tight---there was blood all over his armor, still staining partially scrubbed skin.

“Where else would I be?” he quipped dryly, taking his retrieved items from Varric with an appreciative nod.

“Sleeping. For a solid week. I’m not really as light as Aveline pretends I am.”

“Speaking of Lady Man-Hands, you’ll be happy to know she and a whole patrol of equally dull guardsman followed Varric back to the Bone Pit,” Isabela purred, tucking a lock of Hawke’s hair behind her ear, then making a face at the flakes of dried blood that lingered on her hand.

“Seventeen newly trim miners were living off of mushrooms in the mine for a week,” announced Varric.

“Thank the Maker. At least we actually achieved something today,” Hawke grimaced.

“Yes, because slaying a dragon counts for nothing…” snorted Isabela.

“Even dragon slayers need their rest,” Anders said pointedly, and Hawke let out a huff.

“Do you know how tired I am of resting by now?”

“You’re welcome to stay here after I make all the rest of these fools leave, but you should be fine to go back to the estate. Well…” he raised an eyebrow at her tattered jerkin.

“Should’ve worn your red---”

“Don’t even say it,” said Varric and Hawke in unison. Poking through drawers, Anders produced a very Anders-sized linen tunic, tossing it to Isabela.

“Hold still, now,” she chided as she used a dagger to neatly slice the bloodied leather off of Hawke, revealing a breastband that everyone was thankful for. Hawke pulled the tunic over her head, wincing at the stretch of her waist, and then examined her gory braid.

“Should I just hope my mother doesn’t notice that I’m caked with blood?”

Her companions were silent, lost in thought.

“Really bad sunburn,” Isabela suggested.

“Yeah, except it’s definitely winter,” smirked Varric. “Paint mishap?”

“It’s dark outside,” Anders said with a shrug, and Hawke couldn’t argue with that. As she attempted to stand, Fenris came to her side, offering his arm, and she gladly took it.

“Until the next near-fatal stabbing, I suppose,” Hawke deadpanned as she caught the sleeping vial Anders threw, leaving to the sound of cacophonous groans.

\---------------------

After carrying her unresponsive body for over an hour, Fenris was more than relieved to have Hawke chattering on his arm again.

Luckily, by the time they arrived at the manor, Leandra had already gone to bed, and Bodahn was quite used to Hawke turning up spattered with several different kinds of gore. They took the stairs cautiously, Hawke grumbling with every step, and when they had reached her room, she seemed eager to settle down.

“I just realized I’m going to have to get an entirely new bow,” Hawke moaned as she gingerly unlaced her boots. “Damn dragon…” Fenris gave a small huff of amusement, but perhaps she sensed the tension in him, because as she curled her legs under herself and laid her chin on her palm, she had that knowing look in her almost-black eyes.

“It seems like an integral part of me getting slightly to seriously injured is you glaring at  from that exact chair while I lay in my sickbed.”

“I’m not glaring,” he said with a glare.

“You can’t fool me. All right. Let me have it,” she sighed, that damned endearing look of guilt on her face.

He merely raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. I’ll apologize first. I’m sorry I made you spend the day with Anders, I’m sorry that I took risks I probably shouldn’t have, I’m sorry that you had to be a stress medic, and I’m sorry I bled all over your armor. And I’m sorry for bringing you out there and putting your life in danger, in the first place.” Despite the lightness of her tone, her words were sincere, and her eyes were regretful.

“You think I’m upset because I had to be around Anders?”

“Well, not really, but I know that isn’t fun for you----”

“Hawke, you  _ scared _ me. I---” he took a moment to steady his voice. “I thought you were going to die. Right in front of me.”

“Fenris…”

“And I was completely helpless. Useless. Running with you unresponsive, bleeding through, checking for a pulse every other second----”

“But you  _ did _ help. You saved my life,” Hawke insisted, brow knotted.

“What if you fell unconscious before you could tell me what to do?”

“I wasn’t, though,” she soothed. “I’m all right. You were brilliant. You kept her from roasting me alive, and you bandaged me up perfectly.”

“And you practically jumped in her mouth. Why---”

“I had to think on my feet, and my priority is always to keep you guys from getting hurt. Getting bitten wasn’t part of the plan, but I’d rather it be me than you,” she retorted.

“I was terrified that you were never going to wake up,” he murmured, avoiding her gaze, but she moved carefully to sit on the side of the bed, raising his chin with one cool hand.

“Fenris. I’m just fine. And even if I weren’t, I’d only have myself to blame. I know the risks.”

“What use is blaming you if you’re gone?” he growled hoarsely, and she let her hand fall, looking at him in a way that made his affection and fear and defensiveness swirl like a cyclone.

“I am truly sorry I scared you,” she apologized, voice rough. “I’ll do my best to avoid doing it again.”

“You should drink your potion,” he reminded, clearing his throat, and she did so, cheeks touched with pink. “And I...I should go.”

There was pause, and he wasn’t sure how much his face revealed what he was feeling.

“But?” Hawke prompted.

“I don’t want to,” he admitted.

“Then don’t,” she said easily, sliding under the covers. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m...afraid to let you out of my sight.”

“And you’re planning on watching me from there all night?”

He gave her a look.

“Mmm. You’re welcome do to that,” she teased, moving to the far side of the bed, “or you could get the sleep I know you must desperately need, after the day we’ve had. There’s a cot in the wardrobe you could use, if you prefer.”

His heart caught in his throat.

“I’m filthy,” he reminded her, and she snorted.

“Yes, you’re covered in  _ my _ blood, which is also all over me. I don’t care. Just take off your chestplate. I’ll wake you up if I’m dying.”

Hardly believing his boldness, he began to unlatch it, setting it on the chair as he got up and Hawke held up the covers.

“Not funny,” he rumbled, sliding in next to her like it was as normal as breathing.

“Sorry. Head up,” she instructed, placing the pillow under him.

He began to protest, but the words caught as she rested her head on his chest.

“Okay? Is my face too pointy?”

“Yes---no,” he stammered, and she started to lift her head up, but he eased it back with his hand, and he could feel her smile against him.

“Good night, Fenris,” she yawned, and he was too dazed by the feeling of her (the same body he had felt sitting side by side or shielding from flame or carrying from harm)  _ snuggled _ up against him to respond.

As she drifted to sleep, breaths becoming  more even, he adopted the stillness that only slaves and corpses know, determined not to disturb her, to stay awake just in case anything happened, but he was pleasantly warm and emotionally overwhelmed and physically exhausted.

This awful, frightening, tortuous  _ state _ he had most unexpectedly found himself in (though he realized it had happened gradually, piece by piece with every smile, every squeeze of his hand) was one that he had only ever read about, had never given much thought to, and, as much as he tried to ignore or divert it in favor of protecting himself, protecting her, he knew that he had utterly lost control.


	21. Chapter 21

Per usual, Hawke was curled up on his couch like a cat as he lounged in the armchair, both of them nose-deep in a book.

“‘Bas’ means  _ thing _ in Qunlat, right? Not ‘person’?” she asked.

“It leans more towards object than person, if you want to think of it that way, but yes, it’s best translated as ‘thing’.”

“And basalit-an…”

“‘Thing worthy of respect.’ Even respected outsiders are still considered low,” Fenris explained, and she nodded thoughtfully. “You’re learning fast.”

“Only because I have an excellent teacher,” she countered, smiling that crooked smile that always made him feel his inhibitions slipping. “Who also happens to be an excellent student. I can’t remember the last time you asked me anything.”

“You mean other than ‘do you think Varric will be so flowery with his book about you’?”

“That’s hardly a matter of expertise. Though I have a lot of Varric expertise.”

“I should think anyone with functioning ears does,” Fenris quipped, and Hawke snorted with laughter.

“That was a good one---if only he’d been able to hear it, he’d have second degree burns.”

“What time were they expecting us for cards?”

“Probably at least an hour ago,” sighed Hawke, judging by the state of the fire. She sat up, joints crackling in protest. “Any delay on Varric acquiring more of my money is probably a good thing, though.”

“Agreed,” he chuckled, and they set aside their books and made ready to leave for the Hanged Man. Hawke made it to the door first as he put on his gauntlets, and the gasp that escaped her when she opened the door alarmed him.

“What is it?” he called, but she was already gone.

Hastily knotting the ties, he stalked after her, slamming the door behind him to find Kirkwall a stranger place than usual. Which was saying something.

“Varric said it happens sometimes, but with how  _ hot _ it gets in the summer, I didn’t want to get my hopes up,” Hawke beamed, cheeks flushed with some mixture of pleasure or the cold (where was her cloak?). She glittered in the light of the streetlamps from a fine dusting of what had to be---

“Snow?” he asked, perplexed. The ground was blanketed by several inches, and Hawke was picking up a handful and letting it sift through her fingers with satisfaction.

“Does it snow in Tevinter?” she asked, eyes dark with curiosity.

“Never. This is…” he glanced at the dusky pink of the clouds, “strange.”

“It snows more months than it doesn’t in most of Ferelden,” she murmured, “I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.”

He felt an odd sort of painful affection at her wild happiness.

“It suits you.” She did a mock twirl, grinning.

“Of course, tomorrow I’ll be bitching about how deathly cold I am, and all will be right in the world once more.”

“Did you leave your cloak?” he asked, ready to retrieve it, but she shook her head vigorously.

“I can get it later---I want to feel it.”

So they linked arms and made their way to Lowtown.

“What is Ferelden like?” he asked, genuinely interested, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

“I’m not sure if you’d like it or not. Some of it you might like---but most of it is generally either brown and muddy or brown and snowy. Redcliffe is pretty, and Denerim is...busy. In the country you can’t go far without bumping into some weird statue or ruin. Though there’s a shit ton of statues in the cities, too, but of mabari. It was horrible for Sandor’s ego. Someday, when we get tired of Kirkwall, I’ll take you.” 

The casual way she said it made it seem even more unusual to him.

_ Someday. When we get tired of Kirkwall. _

For almost all of his life (that he could remember), he had been focused on escaping the past and staying in the present, on evading Danarius for just one more hour, one more day, one more week, biding his time but always looking over his shoulder. Then, he met Hawke (or, rather, Hawke happened to him), and she was at his back so often that he found himself forgetting to check for his demons. He still feared Danarius, feared what would happen upon their final confrontation, but with Hawke and their friends by his side, that fear didn’t seem as important as it once did.

Now, he found himself thinking of what might come after he killed Danarius---of a someday.

Blinking rather stupidly, he was drawn back to the moment by her voice.

“If you want, I mean.” He had taken too long to react, and her cheeks were even more pink than before as she nonchalantly gazed at the falling snow.

“Yes. I do. Want that,” he stammered, “very much.”

That damned crooked smile pulled at her lips, and she leaned her head against his shoulder as they descended the steps toward the tavern, proverbial Hanged Man paled with snow.

“I am going to  _ destroy _ Anders,” she announced deviously, bending to gather from a snowdrift near the door. “Headshot all the way.”

“Should I be worried?” he asked dryly, trying not to smile as she packed the snow tightly in her hands, quickened with excitement. She cocked her head at his question.

“Never,” she answered, as if it were obvious, and she dashed inside.

Proactively getting two glasses of wine, Fenris entered Varric’s suite and sat next to Isabela, not wanting to foil Hawke’s evil plot.

“You haven’t started yet?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the neatly stacked cards.

“Our esteemed author has been writing letters this whole time,” Isabela whined, her head resting lazily on her chin. “And Anders is shit at Diamondback.”

“Hey!” frowned the mage from across the table, blissfully unaware of what was in store.

“I’ll play with you, Isabela, but I never seem to be able to recall the rules,” Merrill offered, eyes round with sincerity.

“At least I know how to play, any----” Anders was cut off by his own squawk. None of them had noticed Hawke enter, and she had managed to nail him point blank in the face with the snowball.

“Oh, you’re  _ so  _ going to regret that,” Anders growled playfully at Hawke, who was bent double, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks. She rolled to hide behind Varric’s desk (currently in use), and, to his credit, Varric didn’t even flinch when he narrowly missed being hit by a cone of cold, completely engrossed in whatever letter he was writing.

“Surrender?” Anders called, moving to pursue.

“You first!”

Their cat-and-mouse squabble continued, and Fenris started on his drink, happily recalling the aghast expression on the abomination’s face when he’d been smacked with ice.

Seeing that Merrill was closely following the spectacle, he cleared his throat, the sleepy warmth of the wine reminding him of an idea he often considered when he ignored his common sense.

“I have a favor to ask,” he muttered to Isabela, who turned her gaze from the newly iced chandelier.

“If this is a come on, I will kick your ass,” she commented, easily downing the rest of her tankard.

“What?  _ No _ ,” he choked, surprised and uncomfortable. “It’s...nothing to do with you. Just an area of expertise you have.”

“Somehow that makes it sound even more like a come on,” Isabela snorted, “but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. That is the  _ only _ benefit I’ll be giving you.”

“Whatever you say,” Fenris replied, more discomfited with every word that left her mouth. “I need a book. With a certain degree of...accuracy,” he said quickly, drinking more wine as his courage wavered. “Also, if we could never speak of this again, that would be preferable.”

Isabela’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide with shock and glee.

“You’re finally going to let her have it, huh? Damn, I’m about to owe Bethany money.” 

He took a deeper drink, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I have  _ just _ the thing,” she purred, spurred on by his obvious awkwardness. “And I won’t even mention it to anyone. On one condition.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“If you hurt my girl---”

“Never,” Fenris retorted, eyes narrowing.

“ _ If _ you hurt my girl,” Isabela continued, voice dangerously quiet, “I will make you bleed. Understand?”

He nodded, mouth set.

There was another, much louder squawk from Anders as a wall of ice sprang up around him, just as he was about to tackle Hawke.

“What the hell, Merrill?” he shouted over Hawke’s cackling.

“Well, it’s not very fair, is it? Hawke doesn’t have any more snowballs,” Merrill reasoned, innocent concern on her face.

“ _ She was the one who started it! _ ”

 


	22. Chapter 22

“I am so a cat person,” muttered Anders as he watched Sandor happily tug at the limb of a Tal-Vashoth corpse.

“He likes cats, too,” Hawke grinned, bending down to pet her dog, who proudly showed her the arm he had detached. “He used to sleep with the barn kittens. They probably run Lothering now---I doubt the darkspawn were bold enough to aggravate them.”

“I had a cat in the Deep Roads. He used to swat hurlocks on the nose, Maker bless him…”

“Sometimes I really do think Varric should write about you instead of me. How do I top that one?”

“You have a dog that has a rudimentary understanding of the common tongue,” Fenris replied flatly.

“And can rescue children from wells,” added Isabela.

“Do we even have wells in Kirkwall?” asked Anders.

“Do we even have  _ children _ in Kirkwall?” Hawke mused.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like Varric writes anything that’s true, anyway.” Isabela pressed a kiss to the top of Sandor’s head and proceeded to loot the corpses, pawing through the snow.

“He is using my actual name,” Hawke countered, and Isabela laughed.

“Only your last name!”

“Thank the Maker,” Hawke grumbled, counting her arrows.

“That’s only because Lena Selene Hawke is a bloody mouthful---” Anders snickered.

“I TOLD YOU TO STOP TALKING TO MY MOTHER!!!”

Hawke started to lunge for Anders, but she was stopped by a familiar pressure on her lower back.

“What is it?” she asked, looking up at Fenris, who inclined his head toward Sandor. The dog was pointed eastward, lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Children down a well?” he murmured, and even though she knew he was trying so hard to keep a straight face, her laugh made him break, his lips just barely curling up.

_ Victory. _

“We can only hope.”

\------------------

 

Fenris knew it was coming.

In retrospect, he was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. He knew that Danarius hadn’t forgotten about him. He knew that Hadriana was coming after him. 

Yet somehow he was completely blindsided by the league of slavers on the mountain.

“You are in poss----” began their captain.

“Sandor,” Hawke said calmly, cutting them off. “Kill.”

The dog leapt onto the speaker, tearing out his throat like he was pulling feathers from a pillow.

This caused the slavers’ formation to buckle in fear, providing the perfect in for Fenris to cleave their center apart, splitting their group and making them more vulnerable for Hawke and Isabela. Arrows began to soar by, tearing through armor and flesh alike, and the occasional whistle signaled a forthcoming explosive shot.

While Hawke’s methodology with double daggers made her seem impossible to find, Isabela preferred to be hopeless to escape. No matter where her prey turned, she was there, throwing taunts, kicks, and slices. Eventually, her targets would become so antagonized that they would lash out in crazed fear, and she would gut them with a cackle, trying her best to avoid getting gore on her boots.

Meanwhile, Anders was maintaining barriers (mainly on Sandor, who continued to gleefully maul random targets) and reining in stragglers with a wall of flame, burning a black line of ash into the snow. All in all, it proved effective, and the force was whittled down to their mage reasonably quickly.

“Where is Hadriana?” Fenris growled, and the man (who was being held by the scruff of his neck courtesy of Sandor) began to hyperventilate.

“Please, please, don’t kill me, please----”

“Are you hungry, baby?” Hawke asked sweetly, and Sandor let out a low growl.

“She’s in the holding caves, I swear it, please---”

Sandor released him, giving him a tender lick on the ear.

“You chose the wrong master,” snarled Fenris over the man’s pleas, taking his head in his hands and breaking his neck.

\--------------

The deeper they made it into the caves, the more disturbed Fenris became---the bloodless corpses, the barely raised shades----it was all too familiar.

“Damn,” Hawke swore, and he wheeled around, hypervigilant. “I’m out of arrows. Should have brought another quiver.”

“First person to make a dirty joke out of that wins!” prompted Isabela, barely dodging the empty quiver as it soared over to nail her in the head.

“Hey,” Hawke murmured, moving closer to him, and he looked down at her, jaw tight. “Okay?” He nodded stiffly, lips pressed together, but she slipped her hand to the nape of his neck and held him there all the same. “I’m right here with you.” 

Fenris felt his shoulders relax and his muscles loosen, and found he had regained the ability to swallow. He took a shaky breath, gazing into Hawke’s endlessly dark eyes.

_ It’s not the same. I won’t be alone this time. _

He fumbled for some phrase of gratitude, something that would make her understand how much her being there meant to him, but she already had that knowing look, and before anything could escape his mouth, she had stretched up to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I  _ quiver _ at the thought?” piped Anders, and even Fenris groaned.

“Try and keep it together,” Hawke sighed, retrieving her daggers from their concealed sheaths on her thighs. 

As they continued onward, Sandor walked at Fenris’s side, and when he stopped to give the mabari an ear scratch, the dog leapt up and licked him on the face.

 

\-----------------

They found a survivor in one of the seemingly infinite hallways. She was a young elven girl, eighteen at the oldest, thin as a rail and on the edge of hysteria.

“It’s all right,” Hawke said to the shaking mass, dropping her daggers on the floor. “We’re not here to hurt you, I swear it.” Cautiously, she dropped to a squat on the ground, and the girl peered at her through the gaps of her fingers.

“Everyone else...they’re dead, aren’t they? They’ve been killing everyone,” she sobbed, and Hawke proffered her hand.

“Are you hurt? My friend is a healer, but I can try to help if you’d rather not have magic used on you.” The girl shook her head, placing her small hand in Hawke’s.

“They bled Papa...I don’t understand. We tried to be good. We did everything she asked.”

“It’s not your fault,” Fenris growled roughly, pulsing with rage.

“What’s your name?” asked Isabela, coming to crouch next to them.

“O-Orana,” the girl choked.

“Orana, this is my dog, Sandor,” Hawke introduced, calling the mabari over. “He looks scary, but he’s afraid of nugs. He can take you back to my house in Kirkwall, where it’s safe, if you want. He won’t let anything happen to you.”

Orana reached out her free hand to tentatively pet him on the head, and he rolled over gleefully, exposing his belly and making her give a slight smile.

“He’s afraid of nugs?” she asked, sniffling.

“Very. You’ll have to protect him from the nugs, but he’ll protect you from everything else. He loves you already, see?”

“What about...her?” Orana asked, eyes wide with fear.

“You don’t ever have to worry about her again,” Fenris swore.

“Does that mean...are you my new master now?”

“ _ What?  _ No.”

“I can cook! I can clean, I don’t want to go back to Tevinter---”

“ _ No one _ is going back to Tevinter,” cut in Hawke, squeezing Orana’s hand. “Go ahead with Sandor back to Kirkwall---this might get dangerous. I’ll help you when I’m finished here.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mistress,” Orana breathed, rising to her feet.

“Hawke,” corrected Hawke, brow creased.

“Mistress Hawke!”

“Just Hawke!” Hawke shouted as she watched them hurry out of the caves.

“Poor girl,” murmured Isabela with a grimace. Anders nodded silently, much paler than usual.

“I didn’t realize you were in the market for a slave,” seethed Fenris, and Hawke wondered who he was talking to.

_ Wait. _

“What?” she replied archly, rounding on him. His arms were crossed, and his markings were nearly shimmering with pent-up energy, chest visibly rising with every breath. “I just gave her a  _ job, _ Fenris. Is that really what you think of me? After everything? Truly?” Although she was trying to maintain her composure, she felt herself getting louder as her chest got tighter, and took a deep breath in an attempt to force herself to calm down, trying not to lose herself in a tide of anger and hurt.

His ire cracked at her words, and she saw guilt and shame in his mossy eyes as his face fell, his lips parting in remorse.

“That---I was unworthy. Forgive me. This place seems to be bringing out the worst in me.”

“No kidding,” retorted Anders, and Fenris lunged for him before Hawke put herself between them, forcing them apart with a hand on each of their chests.

“Hey! Enough!” barked Hawke, shooting them each a look as she picked her daggers up from the ground. “I understand, Fenris,” she sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “We should move on.”

 

\-------------

After being tortured by Hadriana on a regular basis for many years, Fenris inevitably learned some of her defining traits. Firstly, she was a coward, meaning that she would never willingly submit to a fight without considerable reinforcements; secondly, she wasn’t actually a particularly adept mage, she just had an extensive imagination; and thirdly, she was a psychopath and a liar that thrived on causing her victims as much pain as possible. 

“So nice to see you again, little wolf. We’ve missed you terribly, you know,” Hadriana simpered, her voice as thin as her horselike face. “And you’ve brought friends! How sweet.”

Fenris felt the hate surge through him with the lyrium, searing in the corners of his eyes, underneath his fingernails, between his ribs---

“Which one’s blood will make you howl the loudest?”

“Time to die,” he snarled, glowing brightly enough to light up the cave, and Hawke ripped the tag off of a smoke bomb with her teeth and threw it at the magister’s feet.

Hadriana was surrounded by several healers and three teams of slavers, many of which were blinded and coughing at the moment, while a few stumbled forward out of the smoke, disoriented. Anders slammed down his staff from the mouth of the room, casting a static cage to hold those behind the effects of the smoke bomb, and as Fenris split a healer’s skull open with his greatsword and prepared to rip out the heart of a downed defender, he could hear the unmistakably wet sound of throats being opened by Hawke and Isabela in the dark cloud ahead of him.

Though the air smelled of smoke and ozone, it became unnaturally cold, and shades began to spring up from the blood of the fallen. Visibility improved, and Fenris caught sight of Hawke sliding under a defender’s shield and slitting his hamstring, causing him to fall to the ground, screaming in agony. Isabela stabbed him in the heart, gave Fenris a wink, and ducked out of the way as he swung his sword in an arc to behead the shade on her tail. Sizzling became audible as Anders’s trap cooked those who tried to escape alive, and when he stopped sustaining it, Isabela did the rest.

On the defensive now that she was nearly out of allies, Hadriana cast a full barrier, unable to attack, but impervious to damage until Anders could dispel it. Fenris stalked around the orb, heart pounding, thriving on the barely concealed fear in the mage’s eyes while Hawke and Isabela cleared up the stragglers. Anders closed his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration, and the barrier began to flicker. Hadriana faced Fenris, eyes gleaming, and he braced himself, sword out, and as the barrier finally fell away, he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her to the ground, only to stiffen in panic when he realized the cry of pain he heard had not come from her lips.

“Hawke?” he called uneasily, not daring to take his eyes off Hadriana, who began to laugh even as he put both hands on her neck. “ _ Hawke _ ?”

“I’m all right,” he heard her sputter, and his blood unfroze. “Fuck.”

He dragged Hadriana over to where Hawke sat, dazed, barely noticing the others as they followed. She was holding the front of her shoulder awkwardly, and with a grunt, she yanked a thin blade of ice out from below her collarbone, sending a light spray of blood with it.

“Shit, that’s cold,” Hawke growled, rubbing the back of her head while Anders put his face in his hands.

“Hawke,” Fenris repeated, as if he was incapable of saying anything else, the sight of Hawke’s blood on the ice making him feel physically ill, the ice that he remembered so well it was as if it had struck him with her: and Hadriana, wheezing but still laughing.

“I’m fine,” Hawke repeated, moving towards him and pressing her knee down on Hadriana’s hip. She picked up the ice, weighed it in her hands, then deftly drove it into the mage’s liver, twisting it for good measure. “And now I’m great,” she sighed over Hadriana’s screams, looking deep into her colorless eyes. “How’s that for howling?”

Fenris stretched out his hand, activating the lyrium, and Hadriana shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face as she gasped for air.

“You don’t want me dead,” she croaked, mewling in pain as she clutched at the ice in her body.

“There is only one person I want dead more,” he corrected with a snarl, preparing to rip out her heart.

“I have information! Information worth more than my life,” she insisted. 

Fenris looked at Hawke, raising an eyebrow, hand flexed.

“It’s your call,” she murmured, cleaning her dagger on her sleeve, and he knew she understood.

“Very well,” he answered, releasing Hadriana and relaxing his hand.

“I have your word? You’ll let me live?” she rasped, rubbing her throat.

“You have my word,” he confirmed.

“You have a sister,” she blurted, and Fenris froze in shock.

_ A sister. _

“Her name is Varania. She is a servant to a magister in Qarinus,” Hadriana continued, a flicker of amusement in her eyes at his reaction even as she clutched at her bleeding abdomen.

“A servant,” he heard himself saying. “Not a slave.”

“She is not a slave,” Hadriana repeated.

Fenris looked to Hawke, who grabbed the magister by the hair and slit her throat.

 

\-------------

“Fenris…” Hawke began cautiously.

“It’s a lie. A trap. Even if it’s true, she’s...this is just her playing with me. Even from beyond the grave.” He stared at the pool of blood on the stone floor. 

“She’s dead, now. She can’t do anything to anyone, anymore. We can find out if she’s telling the truth, if that’s something you want---”

“ _ Don’t _ comfort me,” he snapped, rising to his feet. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have even been here---”

“I’m  _ glad _ I was here,” retorted Hawke, folding her arms. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone, and you don’t.”

“She  _ knew _ , she knew that you…” Fenris trailed off, turning away.

“We’re alive. She’s dead,” Hawke reminded him, trying to be reassuring.

“May she rot. And all the other mages with her,” he spat, face pinched in disquiet.

“ _ Fenris _ .” She didn’t bother hiding the hurt this time.

“And here I thought you were being unreasonable…” deadpanned Anders.

 

“I...I need to go,” Fenris managed, avoiding Hawke’s eyes, and she let him, shrugging off her pauldrons for Anders to look at her shoulder.

 

\------------

 

“You still haven’t seen him?” Varric asked.

“No, I thought maybe  _ you _ had,” sighed Hawke as she took a drink from his tankard. “Dear Maker, what is this? I think my insides are melting.”

“Dwarven ale. It’ll stunt your growth and put some hair on your chest.”

“Exactly what I need,” she snorted, taking another sip. “It’s only been a day, but I’m worried he’s going to---”

“---do something appropriately broody and ill-advised?” Varric said sagely. “He’ll turn up. Anyone would need to decompress after that shit show.”

“I know,” Hawke murmured, “I just don’t want him to be alone right now. If he doesn’t want to be.”

“He knows where you live,” reminded Varric. “Actually, I’ll put 20 sovereigns on him turning up somewhere in your house.”

“Pfft. Easy money. I’ll be checking the coast for a trail of dead bandits.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Orana, you didn’t have to wait up for me, you need your sleep,” remarked Hawke as the wide-eyed girl greeted her from behind the doors of the estate. “Hell, if I forget my key, I can climb in through the window.”

“Mistress Hawke---”

“And you do  _ not _ have to call me that, you can call me Hawke or even Lena or ‘hey, you’---” Hawke stopped talking at the expression on the girl’s face.

“You have a visitor, Mis---Hawke,” Orana amended with a blush, inclining her head towards the study.

“All right,” Hawke replied, suspicious. “Really, go on to bed, and take the dog, if you want. And feel free to sleep in. Maker knows I will.”

“Thank you, M---Hawke,” she stammered, eyebrows raised. “Good night.”

“Sleep well.”

 

_ I have got to stop betting against that dwarf. _

As Orana glided up the stairs, Hawke cracked her neck, flexing her hands while she entered the study.

“Are you all right?” she murmured to the figure perched rigidly on the couch.

“I’m not sure,” Fenris replied, voice filled with even more gravel than usual. He was staring into the fire, impossibly still, and she cautiously sat down beside him, prying at the knots in her boot laces.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Let me see it.”

“There’s nothing  _ to  _ see,” she sighed, brushing her hair behind her shoulder and pulling at the neckline of her blouse to expose her collarbone. “See? It looks like a cat scratch. No match for Anders---it didn’t even need a bandage.”

He raised a finger to trace the faded line, and Hawke swallowed at his touch and the goosebumps it brought.

“She hurt you,” he muttered bitterly, moving to pull his hand away, but she caught it in hers and laced their fingers together.

“Many people have hurt me. Few have survived.”

He gazed at her, lips parted, a blue glow so pure it looked white snaking down his arm to his shoulders to his chest, shining through the loose linen tunic he was wearing.

“I...have been thinking of you,” Fenris roughly murmured, his hand tightening in Hawke’s. “I have been thinking of little else.”

_ Damn, if that wasn’t an amazing line. _

“Tell me to go, and I shall---”

“Never,” she interrupted, and he narrowed his eyes in amusement as she wrapped the fingers of her free hand in his hair.

“If you’re uncomfortable or want me to stop, tell me,” he breathed, finally relaxing.

“You too,” she reminded, and he nodded. “And...are you sure that you really want this? Is this---” she bit her lip. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

“I don’t know how best to explain it, how to show you, Hawke, but I...you...yes. Do you not---is this---” he began to retreat, but she held him there, moving their joined hands to her heart.

“You can be a silly man sometimes,” she whispered in his ear, grinning at the way he tensed at her cheek brushing his. “I can’t remember the last time I haven’t wanted you.”

She felt more than heard his exhale, and was surprised as his blazing mouth trailed kisses along her collarbone, starting with the faint scar. Going slack against the couch, she couldn’t help but smile as he pressed his lips to hers, eager and only a little clumsy. He slid his long fingers through her hair as it deepened, and when she climbed into his lap, a deep growl escaped him that she decided she liked very much.

He went after her mouth more urgently as his hands sought the laces that crept up the sides of her jerkin, hovering over the knot as he waited for permission.

“Thank the Maker I’m not wearing my full armor,” Hawke cracked breathlessly, and they were so close that she felt his chuckle like it was hers. She kissed his cheek, chest aching, then traced the sharp jut of his jaw with her lips, feeling his attempts slow as he gripped her by the hip, panting.

“Sorry, was I distracting you?”

“Always,” he sighed, trying to glare, but she had her mouth on his again, already untying the knots as he massaged her lower back, and he pulled the jerkin over her head, leaving her in a tunic.

“Mmph, we should go upstairs,” Hawke realized, seeing the jerkin on the floor, but Fenris was trailing his mouth down her throat, and she was having a hard time remembering anything else as she kissed the top of his head, swirling her fingers through his hair. Unexpectedly, he bit down, and she let out a whiny moan that she expected even less.

“Are you all right?” he asked, shooting up, guilt on his face. “Did I hurt you?”

“I---no. That was---I’m fine. Better than fine,” Hawke coughed, aware of the flush that was surely cloaking her by now. His eyes were wide with panic, and he wasn’t touching her at all now. “Hey,” she murmured, cupping his cheekbone. “You didn’t hurt me. I liked it. Apparently, I liked it a  _ lot _ . Ok?”

“How much is a lot?” he asked, eyes still guarded but expression relaxed, and it was her turn to try and glare.

“Take me upstairs and find out,” she challenged, and he raised an eyebrow at her.

With remarkable grace and fluidity, he bent down, tossed the jerkin over one shoulder, and grabbed Hawke to carry her up the stairs.

“It’d be a shame if someone made your knees go weak,” Hawke said innocently, arms wrapped around his shoulders as she tucked his hair behind his ears.

“Yes, seeing as it would be extremely detrimental to the both of us,” Fenris replied, hand sliding up and down the nodes of her spine as he tried to stay focused.

“The only question is how would one go about doing such a thing?”

“You’ve certainly managed to figure it out before,” he grumbled, bracing them against a wall as she nipped his ear.

“Wait, really?” she beamed as he shuddered.

“Perhaps I’ll tell you about it some time,” he murmured, and her hands were at the pulls of the neckline of his shirt, exposing his chest.

“You know,” she began, fingers teasing the swirls of lyrium as he worked at the buttons on her tunic, “are you sure this is your first---”

“Yes,” he answered, silencing her with a kiss, amused. “Impressed?”

“Aren’t I always, where you’re concerned?”

“I may have done some research. Borrowed a book from our resident expert,” he groaned, finally reaching her bedroom door.

“Wait. Isabela? You asked her---for me?” she asked, eyes round, hands frozen flat on his shoulders.

“Was that wrong?” he began, nervous, but she had somehow backed him against the wall despite still being in his arms and was kissing him even harder than she had before.

 

\----------------------

Hawke was a heavy sleeper, and he had always found it endearing, amusing. Sometimes she murmured in her sleep---he had heard her mumble nonsense in the Deep Roads, scold Bethany from her sickbed, question Varric mid-nap. She sighed and tossed and turned, used nearby objects as pillows, and remembered none of it upon waking up.

And Fenris was thankful for this as his eyes burned and stung and he tried to calm his unsteady pulse.

She was curled up at his side, palm and cheek on his bare chest, glossy locks of dark hair everywhere. Every now and then, unable to sleep, mind sick with guilt and shame and fear, he would stroke the C of her spine, cup the jut of her cheek, trace the dark veins of her wrists, and be rewarded with a soft noise of pleasure that made his throat constrict with longing and self-loathing.

He had to leave, and he had to do it soon, now, but he was a coward.

Before, when it was just Hawke, breathless and beaming and stroking his hair, looking at him like she couldn’t get enough even if she tried, knitting their hands together up by his head as she kissed him on the nose, laughing when he made a face and flipped over on her, as though she were with anyone, and not a lyrium-laced killing machine who was barely even a person, he had managed to fall asleep, one arm around her stomach, the other around her chest, pressing one last lazy kiss into her hair.

What came next woke him in a cold sweat, entire body rigid with panic.

_ You can try to run, little wolf. You might even get away for a time. _

That voice, seeping like damp. A voice he hadn’t heard in---

_ Just remember, _ Danarius continued,  _ I will make you wish you hadn’t. _

And Fenris found himself lost in white fog, looking down at arms soaked with gore.

_ And, should anyone try and help you stray from me… _

_ You will make them wish they hadn’t. _

Choking on fear and rage, he whipped around, trying to make out his surroundings, when he realized that this place, this situation was horribly familiar.

Then he saw the bodies.

When he had been ordered to kill the fog warriors, he hadn’t even thought about it. There wasn’t even the instinct for hesitation in his mind. Whatever tentative humanity his escape had let bloom was immediately snuffed out, and he was reminded that he was just a weapon, a thing.

That didn’t stop the guilt.

Bending down to turn over a corpse, sidestepping the loose organs strewn across the ground, he frowned at how familiar the emotionless face looked. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he looked closer---

And reeled back in terror as Hawke looked lifelessly through him.

 

\-----------------

  
When Hawke woke, she was pleasantly sore, drowsily stretching out her arms to let an elastic crackle pull through her shoulders and spine. Grinning blearily, she reached out next to 

her, feeling for a silvery limb to wrap herself around. 

“Hawke.”

Her bed was empty, and Fenris was sitting (if you could call it that) in the nearby chair, fully clothed and deathly stiff. He obviously had slept little, and his mossy eyes were bloodshot and distant.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmured, smile fading, and he gave a nod, not quite looking at her. She shifted to the edge of the bed, wrapping a blanket around herself and reaching for him, flinching when he jerked away.

“I---” he began, standing abruptly and beginning to pace, hands rubbing his triceps. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she asked, trying to calm the alarm pricking at her every nerve, the siren that called  _ something is very, very wrong _ so loudly that she could barely hear anything else. He looked near her then, brow creased, focused around her shoulder as he tightened his fists, swallowing hard.

“Last night. You---I cannot do this,” he stammered, the words spilling out over one another, and he pressed his lips together until they turned white as he continued to pace, hand running uncomfortably through his hair.

_ Oh. _

“Did I---was there anything that you weren’t comfortable with?” she asked, voice even, pulling her makeshift robe more tightly around her, digging her nails into the fabric.

“No,” he replied, meeting her eyes for the first time. “This is not your fault---the blame is with me. And,” he cleared his throat, “being with you was...better than anything. Anything I could have imagined or read or heard of.”

“Then why are you leaving?” she urged, emotion seeping through the cracks of the calm she was trying to maintain.

“I have to,” he murmured, backing away.

“Something happened,” she realized, eyes narrowing, and he straightened, eyes on the bedframe. “Fenris, what is it? Talk to me, I can help you, we can figure this out---”

“ _ Stop _ ,” he bit angrily, flinching at the sound of his name on her lips, and she stiffened at the harshness of his voice. “I’m---stop making this harder than it needs to be.”

And, without another word, shoulders slumped in defeat or shame or who the hell even knew, he left, closing the door silently behind him.

For a while, Hawke sat, still wrapped in the blanket, staring intently at the wall opposite her as she processed.

_ He’s hiding something. There are few things that get him so worked up--- _

**_No._ ** _ He doesn’t want me meddling. _

_ One thing, really--- _

_ I was just enormously rejected by him.--- _

_ It’s something to do with Danarius, probably--- _

_ He probably never wants to see me again. _

_ What could have happened within the time I was asleep and the time I woke? _

 

One thing was certain---she did not have the time or emotional energy to deal with this right now.

She shed the blanket, kicking it away, then stripped the bed, piling the bedsheets on the floor. Spotting her clothes from the night before, she tossed them on top of the hill of fabric, adding the duvet and her pillows. She pulled on a robe and tied it, then surveyed her handiwork, hands on her hips.

On her bedside table sat a large vial of red ink. She grabbed it, uncorked it, and poured it in a neat circle over the pile.

_ Oops. _

 


	24. Chapter 24

“...read the most peculiar book about the Veil here in Kirkwall,” Bethany continued. “I’m not sure if the man who wrote it was onto something or, well,  _ on  _ something,” she said with a snort. “How about you?”

“Well,” sighed Hawke, giving a curious glance to Cullen, who lingered much closer than usual that day, “nothing worth listening to, I’d think.”

“Meredith is cracking down,” Bethany breathed, grimacing. “I think he has to monitor our conversations now.”

“Just my luck. This is a hell of a time to start,” Hawke groaned, but rubbed her eyes and gave a hard laugh. “I slept with Fenris.”

“ _ What?!  _ When?? Does Isabela know? Does she owe me money??”

“Oh, last night. A few hours ago. He immediately broke it off with me, though, so I don’t know how that fits into your bet.”

“What?” Bethany repeated, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

“He had been gone---we killed another person from his past and he took off---and I came home and he was at the house and we…” Hawke rubbed at her temples. “I asked if he was sure about, well, me, because I didn’t want him to regret---he initiated it, and I wasn’t going to say no, but I should have. Because now---I don’t even know if he…” Embarrassed, Hawke struggled to most succinct yet accurate way to put it. “I feel foolish. He said that ‘the blame is his’ and ‘it’s better this way’ and all that, and I really think that there’s some  _ reason _ , something that happened to scare him off, but...he doesn’t want me meddling, anyway.” She cleared her throat awkwardly, massaging her knuckles as Bethany furrowed her brow, chin resting on her hand.

“Well, I guess you don’t want me to kill him…”

“No! Maker, you’re supposed to be the pacifist,” Hawke snorted weakly. “Regardless of whether or not this is because of me not being---enough of whatever---I think that once the abject humiliation wears off, I’ll...still want to be around him. However pathetic that is. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” She paused, cocking her head. “And I’d doubt they’d release you for a fun ‘murder field trip’.”

“What was it Father always used to say? ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’?”

“Something annoying like that,” sighed Hawke with a grimace.

“Maybe Cullen would let me,” Bethany quipped quietly, and Hawke found he seemed much more uncomfortable than the last time she’d looked.

“He might actually have input we could use,” Hawke murmured impishly, crossing her legs in her seat. “It was quite impressive, you know,” she continued at her normal volume, Bethany raising an eyebrow. “Very acrobatic.”

“I’m sure,” Bethany replied, stifling a laugh.

“It took me an age to get down the stairs...thank the Maker Mother was out, I can’t imagine what she’d have said...how about you, Knight-Captain? Any ideas?”

Cullen, who was now beet red, gave her a weary look.

“Don’t be shy! We’ll pull up a chair,” Hawke said cheerfully while Bethany snapped her fingers, making a nearby chair float invitingly near the table.

“You know I’m only doing my job,” he sighed as he took his seat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Heaven forbid I regale my baby sister with tales of my depressing sex life without Meredith and her middleman getting the details…”

“I only report suspicions of blood magic or dealings with the Qunari.”

“And if I told you I slept with a Qunari blood mage?”

“I wouldn’t be gullible enough to believe you,” he said sternly, and Hawke couldn’t help but smile.

“Why the interest in Qunari?” asked Bethany.

“A request from the Viscount, as far as I know,” he answered, and Hawke raised her eyebrows. “Did you two actually have any more questions for me, or did you just call me over here to see me blush again?”

“Both,” Bethany responded, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, try and remember,” began Hawke, and Cullen nodded, features colored with a hint of suspicion. “When we were together, and we were  _ together _ \----was it----” she gestured with her hands “----good?”

“Are you--- _ seriously _ asking me this in front of your sister?” coughed Cullen, turning pinker by the second.

“Well?” Bethany asked impatiently, crossing her arms.

“I---yes. It was, uh, I mean,” he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t have anything to worry about, all right? Trust me. Can we please talk about something else?”

“See?” Bethany chuckled.

“I do feel a little better now,” Hawke mused.

“Good,” chimed Cullen weakly. “Why do we never have normal conversations?”

“Come by the Hanged Man some night and I’ll try for you,” Hawke laughed. “I’ll even teach you how not to look like you’re eavesdropping on someone, yeah?”

“Don’t go in the tin can, though,” Bethany warned. “That’s a certain way to get drinks thrown on you.”

 

\------------------

 

As Hawke was leaving the Gallows, Cullen called her over.

“The answer is yes,” she reported.

“I---what?” he asked, confused.

“Yes, you were also good. I still remember. Despite all the hay. Especially that thing---”

He was frozen in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“Aaaaaand that’s not what you wanted to talk about. Never mind. What is it?”

“Well. Um. Thank you,” he managed, clearing his throat and looking at the sky, “I just wanted to say that, I, regarding your, ah, male friend, if you were to need someone to talk to them…”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“I’d never do anything without your approval, obviously, and I’m probably not the person he’d have wanted, but, well, I remember some of the things Carver said to me…”

“Carver was stupid to say those things to you,” Hawke murmured, surprised and touched. “You’re sweet. You’ve always been sweet. But I can handle this---I just like having my ego stroked every now and then.” They both chuckled, and she took his hand in hers. “Come drink with us some time, I mean it. Or just come over. Your stealth is atrocious---I need to do Kirkwall a favor.”

“Knights aren’t trained to be stealthy.”

“Obviously. No pressure---just if you find yourself free and bored up in your princess tower…” 

“We’ll see.”

 

\---------------

 

Shouldering the hefty cloth bag, Hawke entered the clinic, looking around for Anders.

“Where’s my favorite spirit healer hiding?” she called lightly.

“What did you break this time?” Anders answered suspiciously from the back room.

“Nothing, actually, I just was wondering if I could use the…” she paused as he emerged, looking wild eyed and frazzled. “Biohazard fire. Okay. What’s going on with you?”

“There’s some kind of fever spreading in Darktown. I’m not sure if it’s nugs or children or both, but everyone and their aunt has been in here coughing---I’m still trying to sanitize the latest copy of my manifesto---what’s in the bag?”

“Some bedding and clothes ink got on. A lot of ink.” She placed the bag at her feet, nudging it a little.

“Ink,” repeated Anders skeptically. “And just how did this happen?”

“Freak accident. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. It’s senseless. Can I burn it here or do I need to go out to the Coast?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“Here is fine,” he relented, waving a hand and leading her outside.

“If you need some help around here this week, I could use the distraction,” Hawke began, shouldering the bag once more.

“The last thing I need is you getting sick,” Anders groaned, lighting the fire with the turn of his wrist.

“I could try and catch you a nug. A child would be harder---maybe we could borrow one---”

“Maker’s mercy, it’s like you only listen to every other word I say,” Anders swore, throwing back his head. “After we finish this, you are going to go elsewhere and not come back to Darktown until I’m certain you could  _ kiss _ a nug and live to tell the tale.” He paused for a moment. “Is there a dead body in that bag?”

“Please. Like I wouldn’t just drop it in the harbor like a normal person. Or just leave it there---generally they practically disappear on their own by the time I come back.” She opened the bag and dumped its contents onto the fire, following with the bag itself. “If I helped you out, wouldn’t that make it to where you’d find a remedy faster? Even if I got sick, perhaps less people overall might, if it got you the information you need for a cure.”

“No,” replied Anders flatly. “If you got sick...it would make it harder for me to work.”

“Aren’t you used to me weakly coughing up subpar jokes from a cot by now?” she snorted, watching the smoke rise, but her face fell when she saw his expression.

“Do you think the fact that it happens so much makes it easier for me?” he asked archly, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think it affects me to see you half dead all the time?”

“Anders, I---”

“As much as I love you, Hawke, you’re only human. And it keeps me up at night to think that, eventually, you’re going to get torn up so badly that anything I can do just won’t be enough.” His voice grew thin and tight, and Hawke felt her throat constrict with guilt.

“If that ever happens, which it might not, it won’t be your fault, it’ll be  _ mine _ ,” she told him, moving closer to smooth a rogue strawberry blonde lock of hair behind his ear. “For picking a fight with whatever did it.” He leaned into her touch, eyes closed, and she noticed how dark the circles under his eyes were. “Besides, you are my friend, first and foremost. The healing is just an added bonus. Don’t waste your nights worrying about me.”

“It’s not always worrying,” he replied, opening his eyes, and Hawke froze, trying very hard not to let the hand of panic that shoved up through her esophagus take control.

“I’ll do as I’m told this once,” she said as brightly as she could, patting him on the shoulder and making to escape. “But I expect to see you later this week at the Hanged Man.”

Hawke didn’t register whatever farewell he sent to her as she scurried away, quickly making her way through the tunnels to come up through the wine cellar of the estate. Bolting the door behind her, she leaned against it, sliding to the cool concrete below. She put her head in her hands, raking them roughly through her hair.

_ How am I going to sort all  _ this _ out? _


	25. Chapter 25

Hawke was halfheartedly thumbing through one of her old books when Isabela burst through her bedroom door.

“I know I’m a few hours late, but I brought you a present and some whiskey that might share a birthday with your mother,” she panted, kicking the door shut behind her and leaping onto the bed.

Startled, Hawke squinted out the window at the stars.

“Weren’t we getting blacked out a few hours ago _tomorrow_?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I’m early! Even better! All you were doing was gloomily reading that book,” Isabela scoffed, taking said book and throwing it over her shoulder, making Hawke sigh and cross her arms.

“Aren’t we in a suspiciously good mood tonight?” Hawke quipped as the pirate proffered a parcel with a large bow slapped haphazardly on top.

“I’ve got a lead on that tome I’m looking for. It’ll be in Kirkwall within the month, and, after that, in our hands in probably hours. Varric says minutes.”

“That’s pretty damn good news in my book. I wouldn’t bet against him, if I were you,” sighed Hawke darkly as she set the package in her lap. “My income has taken a serious hit from underestimating that dwarf of late. What is this?”

“Just open it,” urged Isabela, clasping her glittering hands together in excitement. Setting aside the ridiculous pink bow, Hawke pulled apart the paper, revealing wine-colored silk that seemed nearly liquid. Raising her eyebrows, she lifted out what appeared to be a fairly short nightgown with the same dark lace at the low cut neckline.

“Bela…” she began, realizing she was going to have to expedite her consumption of alcohol if she was going to survive this evening.

“Do you like it? I know you’ve been sleeping in those old tunics and I _had_ to get you something nicer---you never know who’s planning to---”

“That reminds me,” Hawke cut in hastily, “I was going to tell you something.”

“Oh?” Isabela purred. “Well, hit me with it. And try it on,” she ordered, gesturing as she sat back on the pillows of the bed.

“Do I have to put it on now?” Hawke groaned, trying to think of the best way to gently let Isabela know that things had exploded between her and Fenris.

“I want to see if the fit is right,” Isabela insisted, and so Hawke began to pull off her tunic with a sigh.

_Well, Bela, it’s very nice that you got me this ‘just in case’ ‘someone’ tries to seduce me, but someone already seduced me and then decided that it was a mistake, but also please don’t murder him because it isn’t really his fault._

Sliding the straps over her bare shoulders, Hawke was surprised to discover that she actually liked it---it barely felt like she was wearing anything, and she couldn’t help but appreciatively rub the fabric between her thumbs.

“Do you know, I actually like this one---here I thought it’d turn out it’d be like that lacy monstrosity that nearly gave Anders a heart attack when you whipped it out in front of him---”

“Leggings off! And you are _not_ letting anyone burn this one, so help me…”

“Bethany actually went to the Chantry after seeing it. The _Chantry._ It had to be done,” protested Hawke, balling up her leggings and throwing them at Isabela. “That’s all I’m stripping for you tonight,” she snorted, putting her hands on her hips.

“Oh _my,”_ sighed Isabela, motioning for Hawke to twirl, who complied, throwing her hands up in mock showmanship. “I’m a genius. And the world’s best friend. This one will for _sure_ cause accidental deaths.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear,” Hawke grimaced, tracing the hem restlessly.

“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Bela, for making me look like a desire demon’s daydream---’”

“Yes, I’m sorry, you’re right,” Hawke sighed, dropping down into her chair. “Thank you. I love it. Really. It’s just---there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Did you forget to take your witherstalk again?” Isabela asked, taking her satchel off of her hip. “No wonder you’re in such a mood---”

“I definitely took my witherstalk,” groaned Hawke, putting her face in her hands. “Just---before I tell you this, I need you to promise me something.”

Isabela’s cheerful demeanor faded, and she raised one dark eyebrow.

“What? What is this about?”

“I need you to promise not to do anything stupid---actually, I need you to promise that you’re not going to do anything at all. About this. Okay?”

Her amber eyes narrowed.

“I’m starting to think we don’t have enough alcohol for this conversation. Red or white?” she asked, getting off the bed and stretching.

“You’re probably right,” admitted Hawke, rubbing circles at the base of her jaw. “I’m fine with anything. Whatever you want. The cellar’s unlocked, we can---”

“I’ll go,” the pirate interrupted. “You---” she gestured broadly around Hawke’s skull “---think.” 

 

It took an embarrassingly long amount of time for Hawke to realize that Isabela had taken her satchel with her.

_Oh, motherf--_

She looked down at her ridiculous outfit, then scanned the room for her tunic and leggings.

_No time. She’s already there by now._

Cursing Fenris, Isabela, the creation of mankind, and, above all, herself, Hawke stumbled into a woolen house robe, hastily pushed her stockinged feet into some slippers, wrenched open her bedroom window, and threw herself out onto the Kirkwall rooftops.

 

\-------------------------

 

Fenris wasn’t quite sure how long it’d been since he’d left the mansion.

He’d come straight back, oblivious to his surroundings, and had been holed up in the bedroom ever since, doing his best to force his racing, panicky mind to formulate coherent thoughts. 

It was not going well.

_Was it his subconscious that had pulled out the nightmare from a twisted mixture of his memories and fears, or was it no coincidence?_

_Was it a trigger put in place by Danarius, should he escape and find freedom?_

_Or did Danarius already know about Hadriana?_

_Could he know about----_

And as hard as he tried not to even think of her name, he was overwhelmed with a flood of memories every time he turned a corner of thought.

Fenris had been apprehensive as she peeled off his tunic, knowing she wasn’t going to miss some things he’d rather her not see if she hadn’t already (the frostbite scars on his ribs, courtesy of Hadriana; the missing sections of flayed skin across his lower back; the sigil crudely carved into his hip; the true extent of the lyrium…); her moon-dark eyes were full of an aching kind of joy, of happiness, almost like that night in the snow, and if they became sorrowful, or worse, pitiful, he wasn’t sure he could keep himself together.

So there he sat, before her, on her absurdly soft bed, torso bare as he tried to keep his breathing normal---swallowing hard as she crawled towards him on her knees---and let himself be examined in the firelight. After a moment, she smoothed her hands over his collarbones, cupping the base of his neck and gazing down at him.

Not trusting his voice, he tried to school his expression, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _Well?_

With that crooked smile pulling at her lips, Hawke kissed him, deeply,  and he relaxed, hands grabbing for her now-wild hair. She pulled away, panting, and he paused again, uncertain---and she pressed her mouth to the ugly scar on his right shoulder, her lips gentle and featherlight. He kept his hands in her hair as she skated her fingers over the ruts in his back, the whisper of her touch raising the hair on the back of his neck, and found it hard to swallow as she carefully traced the blue-black trail of long-burned skin with the barest of pressure from her kisses. 

Apparently satisfied, she crept into his lap, one palm on his chest, the other sliding into his hair.

_You’re a warrior. But I already knew that._

And, just like that, he stopped worrying, stopped fearing he wasn’t enough, and it was just Hawke.

_Hawke cursing a blue streak as they struggled to unlace her leggings and he chuckled into her shoulder._

_Hawke looking up at him with something he knew but couldn’t name in her eyes._

_Hawke taking his hand and guiding it to a burn scar above her left hip--- “The dragon?” he asked, concerned, and she shook her head, snickering, “Bethany”---_

_Hawke hopelessly grasping at his forearm while his fist crushes her heart before he even knows what’s happening._

_Hawke’s eyes turning dull as blood drips from the corner of her mouth and he howls, dumbstruck, at the hole in her chest._

 

Fenris put his hands in his hair and yanked, the brief shock enough to get the images out of his mind for the moment.

Until it happened again.

Which it most definitely would.

_He had to stay away from her. At least until Danarius was taken care of._

_Because that’s always worked before._

And he was back to thinking of her scent, her frown, the gutting way her expression became so unfamiliarly guarded when he’d left---

_He deserved it, and worse. He’d deserve it if she never spoke to him again._

He faltered at the thought of Hawke never speaking to him again.

_She’d never let him go after Danarius alone._

Which, if he was being honest with himself, was the smarter way to go---Danarius was sure to arrive in force, and Fenris would likely need all the help he could get. Help didn’t come better than Hawke.

_But if Hawke dies, this is all for nothing._

He had been anxious about pitting her against Danarius almost as soon as he had realized that she and the others were unlike Anso or the previous individuals that had given him a hand (which was usually for a generous amount of coin), but now that he was unsure if he could even control himself should Danarius regain proximity to him, he was downright terrified of he and Hawke even being on the same continent.

He could hire mercenaries, perhaps get the Templars involved, maybe even leave Kirkwall---

_But that would risk Danarius tearing through Kirkwall anyway to draw him out._

In all likelihood, Danarius already knew about Hawke, especially since Hadriana seemed to have an idea. The only thing to do was to minimize his dealings with Hawke and deal with Danarius as quietly as possible to avoid----

_But what if this was all a trick in the first place?_

Hawke was a far cry from the fog warriors---despite chasing after freedom all these years, Fenris wanted to bind himself to her, to be _hers_. She wasn’t an acquaintance he’d fought beside for a few months, she was his first friend, his family, and now...she was somehow even more. Even if Danarius had somehow sent the nightmares, he could be bluffing, and Fenris was playing right into it. If the magister had nothing to do with it at all, it was even less likely that Fenris could lose control---he no longer thought of himself as a tool, as a wild animal, as Danarius’s dog. What was it Hawke had told him in her foyer, all that time ago?

_You are no one’s dog---you’re a good man, and a great friend._

But if it wasn’t a trick---if his worst fears were realized---

_The stakes were just too high._

 

Fenris took a heavy swig from a nearby bottle of wine, starting at the noise it made when he dropped it. Shaking his head, he searched for something to write with, moving stacks of books until he found a small pencil.

_Maybe Varric would look into---_

Something whizzed by his head, and his markings lit up far too late.

 “As much as I _hate_ to be that person, damn. You men _really_ are all the same!” snarled Isabela, who was charging toward him.

“Isabela,” he began, struggling to unpin his sleeve from the wall, but she was on him, blade to his throat, inches from his face.

“As I recall, you made a promise to me. Do you happen to remember that?” she asked, voice deathly calm.

“Ye---” he started, but she put the blade to his cheek, eyes wild.

“Oh, you don’t get to talk. Nod.”

He nodded, hands up in surrender, willing the lyrium to calm down.

“Good! Now, do you remember the promise I made to _you_?”

He nodded again.

“Really??? Because you broke your promise,” she growled, sending him to the floor with a kick to the chest. “You said you wouldn’t hurt Hawke. You said _never._ And so I thought I could give you my blessing!”

Unsure of what else to do, Fenris cautiously nodded, now flat on his back.

“But don’t worry. I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” the pirate sighed airily, backing him into the corner, his hands still raised. “And I said I would make you bleed.”

“You’re right,” he said, and she gave the barest tilt of her head, a snarl still on her lips. “I hurt her, and I deserve----”

“Of course I’m right,” hissed Isabela, grabbing his face and dragging her blade over his cheekbone, making him grimace. “And that didn’t sound like a nod.”

Sighing, Fenris nodded.

“Better!” Isabela praised sarcastically, clapping her hands and placing her daggers back in their sheaths. She rose, pacing the room, amber eyes glossing over its contents. 

“Now,” she questioned, grabbing the wine bottle and breaking it off on the table, “which quadrant of your face do you hold most dearly?”

Fenris wasn’t sure what the answer to that question was, and he especially didn’t know how he was going to answer it with a nod, but, luckily, he didn’t have to consider either point for very long. 

There was a yelp and the sound of breaking glass, and Isabela had been disarmed and thrown to the ground by a shadow, and even though the movement of her coming through the window made the curtain block the moonlight for the moment, Fenris, of course, already knew who it was.

“What _the fuck_ are you doing?!” shouted Hawke, the length of her ivory forearm pinning Isabela flat by the shoulders. With a grunt of effort, Isabela attempted to wriggle out from under her toward Fenris, managing to slip out a dagger, but Hawke leapt on top of her, slamming her back into the floor and twisting the blade from her hand, tossing it behind her.

“Well?” Hawke panted, flushed with anger and exertion, but Isabela only pursed her lips, eyes sliding over to Fenris. “Do NOT say he started it, because I know he didn’t,” she growled.

“He---” began Isabela, sneaking a hand to her other sheath, but Hawke caught the wrist, grabbed the dagger, and threw it into the wall, where it sank to the hilt. “He promised me that he wouldn’t---”

“And I asked you to promise me you wouldn’t do anything stupid,” huffed Hawke, leaning back and risking a hand to clear the hair from her face. “But I---” she pulled the escaping Antivan to the ground again “---should’ve known that wouldn’t work---” Isabela kicked her off and lunged in Fenris’s direction “---from the YEARS of experience!” Hawke wrapped an arm around Isabela’s shoulders and swept the back of her knees, pulling her down on top of her, and Isabela let out a frustrated growl, flipping over and pouncing on Hawke.

“I am _trying_ to defend your honor here!” Isabela held Hawke’s wrists above her head with one hand, but Hawke wasn’t struggling.

“How? By kicking my ass?” Hawke pointed out, and Isabela’s brow furrowed.

“Yes! No!” She jumped off of Hawke, who sat up, folding her arms. “He swore he wasn’t going to hurt you, and I made sure not to actually promise, because I just _knew_ by the look on your face---”

“And you think _this_ is where I wanted to have this conversation with you, instead of in my bed while pleasantly drunk?”

“I’m starting to see your point,” Isabela conceded, crossing her arms and glancing at Fenris, who seemed very interested in the ceiling. “To be fair, I was hoping you wouldn’t cotton on quickly enough---”

“Isabela, I am more than capable of handling my own...situations,” sighed Hawke. “Like this situation. That you’ve created. That I have to handle.” The pirate looked as though she was about to interrupt, but Hawke held up a finger. “If I need your help, I will specifically ask you. All right? Now, go back to the manor, and start drinking. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Fine,” groused Isabela with another glare to Fenris, “if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” muttered Hawke as Isabela pulled her to her feet. “And I mean it. Don’t hang around and eavesdrop, don’t wait until I leave and try and attack again…”

“I won’t,” Isabela protested innocently.

“I know,” Hawke said grimly, “because if you do, I’m taking this---” she went over to the windowsill and revealed the whiskey “---and dumping it into the harbor.”

“You wouldn’t!” gasped Isabela.

“I would,” countered Hawke, tapping on the glass. “See you soon.”

\-------------

Even at his most comfortable with Hawke, Fenris often had a difficult time finding the right words to say to her: therefore, as he watched her tackle her best friend to the ground on his behalf, he knew he was in for it.

It was enough of a shock that she was there, the icon of his hopes and fears made flesh, and he wondered if he should intervene as they sparred, gritting his teeth as Isabela grasped  some of that seemingly endless hair in a bejeweled fist.

However, Hawke swiftly embedded a dagger in his wall, and he figured it was probably best to stay out of it.

When Isabela slinked out of the room and down the stairs, leaving him alone with Hawke, his pulse quickened, and he fumbled for what to say.

“All right, it’s your turn now,” Hawke announced quietly, and he approached her in silence. She looked up at him with a frown, brow knitted, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” he rasped, clearing his throat as she knelt by his pack, pulling out a bandage.

“Really?” she asked, walking over to the dagger in the wall and removing it with a grunt. “You can’t think of anything disastrous that happened tonight?”

“Nothing that you caused,” he murmured, watching her cut the bandage into several pieces. She ran a hand through her hair, and he noticed how unusually she was dressed---she appeared to be wearing pajamas, but her legs were nearly bare---clearly she hadn’t planned on leaving the estate. He wondered if she was cold---he hadn’t kept a fire going since before they---

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry. Or feel guilty,” she said, stretching the largest piece of linen between her fingers. “It’s not deep. A little elfroot and a wrap and it’ll be gone within the week, but for now…” She rolled her shoulders with a click, stretching to reach his face with the linen, and pressed it to his cheek, the feel of the pads of her fingers making his brands alight and causing him to shiver.

And, just as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling was gone, her hand pulled back, the now bloodied cloth in her fist.

“Sorry,” Hawke muttered, “I didn’t---here.” She handed him the fabric, hands quick as thought, and motioned for him to hold it to his face, gesturing up or to the side as needed.

“Hawke,” Fenris started, confused, but she shook her head.

“Pressure until it stops bleeding, then wash it, salve, and bandage,” she instructed, turning away, his view of her expression obstructed by a wave of midnight hair coming over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he answered quietly, afraid to test the fragile tension between them; Hawke faced him, pulling the old house robe she wore more tightly around herself.

“Were you just going to let her?” she asked, rubbing at her forehead with an index finger.

“I---don’t know,” he admitted awkwardly, free hand flexing at his side, “if she seemed like she was really going to do something, I probably would’ve had her chase me out to the Coast and then knocked her out. For the time being, it just seemed like she---” he gestured lamely “---was doing what she had told me she would, and...I deserved it.”

“Enough with that,” Hawke said sharply. “I haven’t told her anything. She doesn’t have a clue what happened between us, she just _assumed_ that it couldn’t be my fault, and she doesn’t...she doesn’t understand that sometimes it just isn’t anyone’s fault. And I know she loves me, but that hardly means she can come over here and try to slice you up due to some perceived---”

“We both know this is nothing to me,” Fenris interrupted, inclining his torn cheek toward her, and she pressed her lips together like she was barely holding back a tide of words.

“That doesn’t mean you deserve it,” she stated finally, the rush of blood to her lips coloring them red and sore. “That doesn’t mean it should’ve happened.”

“How did she find out, if you didn’t…”

“She gave me something that I realized she had... _expectations_ for,” she began, absently pulling at the straps of her gown, “and my reaction to it paired with my intention to tell her something that she had to promise not to do anything stupid about led her here. She told me she was getting more wine, and I was foolish enough to believe it for a while, which is why I didn’t get here in time to stop her from hurting you.”

“Hawke,” he repeated, and he saw a tiny part of her face fall as he said her name. “Isabela didn’t hurt me. She startled me, but I’m---” he paused as he caught sight of her neck “---what’s that?” Her brow furrowed, and her slim hand went up to trace her throat where his eyes lingered.

“What’s what?” she asked, genuine confusion in her voice coming through over the strange restricted tension, and he moved her hair back to reveal a nasty bruise, beginning to yellow with age.

Hawke, as always, realized what was going on much faster than Fenris, and backed away, retying her robe with the neckline closed and making some hasty quip about the cold.

_How had Isabela already managed to---_

But it hadn’t been Isabela: it had been him.

He had lost himself to his instincts, biting at the swallow of her throat as he listened to her sighs, her mouth hot against his temple, not realizing what he had done until she had yelped, and he immediately pulled away, shocked and ashamed of himself.

And now, proof of what he’d done bloomed against her neck.

_Perhaps I am just an animal._

He scrunched his eyes shut, and, even though it hadn’t happened since she’d leapt through his window, he was back, holding an empty corpse, looking into dead eyes---

“Fenris,” Hawke called, and he opened his eyes, extinguishing the pained glow that pulsed through his brands. She was further away, arms wrapped around herself, eyes trained on his face. He knew this was the time to explain, to tell her he was a coward and a fool at best and he couldn’t last a week without being at her side, to plead to have the chance to give her every last inch of himself again…

_But, again, he thought of the bruise on her neck, and the stakes were just too high._

“I didn’t mean for this---any of this---to happen this way,” Hawke murmured, expression carefully guarded. “I wanted to give you space, and time, and I didn’t want to force you to see me until you felt comfortable...but, what is it that Mother always says, ‘we make plans and the Maker laughs’?” She shifted her posture, arms crossed. “I suppose I make plans and Isabela laughs. I...our friends are just as much yours as they are mine, and I’m sure they’ll understand if you’d rather we, well, do some scheduling. Really, what I’m trying to say, is, Fenris,” she sighed, biting her lip, “is that you have something here in Kirkwall---you’ve built a life, you’ve got a home, and I…” Swallowing hard, she paused. “I would hate for you to give that up just because you’d rather not be around me anymore.”

**_What?_ **

“I haven’t, ah, told any of the others, which you may want to, and that’s fine with me, but we could alternate days at The Hanged Man, and I really need to visit Bethany more anyway,” Hawke continued, wringing her hands, completely oblivious to Fenris’s stunned state. “And, you know, no matter what, I’ll always be here for you if you need help, with Danarius or anything really, even if you decide that you’d rather not see me for a few months. I’ll understand. And, of course, if you decide that you’d rather not see me...ever again, though I hope you don’t, I respect that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear with a little nod, not meeting his eyes.

There was a prolonged pause, and he could see her throat constrict.

_If I’m never going to see you again, I may as well start the walk back to Minrathous now._

“What did you say?” Hawke asked, looking almost as surprised as he felt.

“I...If I’m never...you heard me,” Fenris replied hoarsely, clearing his throat as he tried to regain control of his thoughts versus the words coming out of his mouth. Her eyebrows reached for her hairline.

“Then---”

“Isabela was more right than I knew. You…” He chanced a step forward. “Of course I want to be around you, if you still…” He trailed off, and she was finally looking at him, _really_ looking at him with a cautious sort of curiosity in her gaze.

“That’s...good,” she breathed, gripping the bottle of whiskey more tightly, slim fingers curling around it. “I’m glad to hear it. I...I should go.”

And, before he could even say her name, she had slipped out the window, the curtain gently waving from her exit.

 

_This wouldn’t do._

For Hawke to sincerely believe that Fenris could simply cut her out of his life, that he would _prefer_ it that way, he knew he had significantly failed in communicating his feelings about her (perhaps even from the very beginning). He’d only managed to make an even bigger mess of it when he had fled from her room, dizzy and sick with panic and guilt, but he’d never considered that she didn’t know how terribly lost he was to her. How could she not? She was brilliant, the smartest person he knew---surely he was an open book to her, barely a puzzle? Even Merrill, of all people, had been making dreamy comments to him about his “puppy eyes” for Hawke: _Merrill,_ the friendly elven blood mage without two spare brain cells to rub together.

The fault was with him, certainly---he hadn’t shown it properly, hadn’t made it clear enough. 

Giving one last look out the window, he pulled it shut, leaving the curtain aside as he approached the chest of drawers against the wall. He opened the top drawer, sifting through neat stacks of papers marked with Hawke’s barbed wire script (and his clumsy echoes) until he found what he was looking for, the tail of the ribbon just visible under the bottommost pile.

_Now, how had she tied it, again?_


	26. Chapter 26

Hawke hit the floor with a groan, clutching at her ribs as she gasped for breath.

“Still not guarding your left, I see,” sighed Aveline from above her as she stretched her neck.

Gritting her teeth, Hawke rolled back and onto her feet, bringing her fists up again as Aveline adjusted her perfect soldier’s footwork.

“Why did I think this was a good idea, again?” she coughed.

“Beats me,” groused Isabela from the sidelines, rubbing her freshly healed jaw as Anders examined her knees. “I’d have had her arse if I had my daggers…”

“Because,” Aveline began, easily guarding Hawke’s flurry of swipes with her forearms, “if you do get caught without weapons, you need to know how to defend yourselves efficiently.” 

Hawke dodged Aveline’s blows with frenzied grace, only to be brought down with a backhand as she tried to disable Aveline’s knee from behind.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the job has you a little worked up this evening,” Hawke quipped, shaking her head as she analyzed her opponent for weak spots. And found none.

“I’ve already been working with them on this, and if those louts can do it…” Aveline raised an eyebrow as Hawke landed a hit below her sternum, then leaned back and gave the rogue a massive headbutt, sending her sprawling back to the ground.

There was a chorus of sympathetic noises from Anders, Isabela, and Merrill, and Hawke stumbled to her feet, ears ringing.

“Since when does hand to hand sparring involve heads?”

“You tried to sweep the knee earlier, don’t think I didn’t notice---”

“I see this is going about as well as expected,” announced Varric as he entered the room. Aveline gave a bark of a laugh, and Hawke winced, rubbing her forehead. Bracing herself once more, she raised her arms, going on the defensive.

“I hope you’re planning on getting in here and kicking her ass after she kills me,” she cajoled, swallowing hard as she caught sight of Fenris slipping silently in behind him.

“It’d be a twist ending for sure,” Varric replied, stroking his chin sardonically. “Dragonslayer killed by sparring instructor via headbutt…”

“I’ve yet to see any instruction,” deadpanned Anders, and Aveline rolled her eyes.

“Fine, fine. Hawke, your guard has to be closer, and if you keep trying to reach up here to hit me, I’m always going to win. Let larger opponents come to you.”

“This would have been great information to have  _ before _ you imprinted my face in the floor,” Hawke sighed, adjusting, and Aveline shrugged.

“Maybe the guards have been frustrating me more than usual lately,” she admitted, and Isabela snorted.

“I imagine frustration is a state you’re  _ intimately _ familiar with, Lady Man-Hands.”

“And  _ that’s _ why you didn’t get any instruction at all,” replied Aveline, striking for Hawke’s throat.

Hawke dodged the hit with minimal effort, then gave a sharp jab to Aveline’s kidney before she could recover. Grabbing the staggered woman by the shoulders, she repeatedly kneed her in the gut, only to be sent back to the ground with a disoriented shove.

“All right,” Hawke groaned feebly. “That’s it for me.”

“Shame,” Aveline panted, “you were actually making progress there.”

 

As Anders fretted over her injuries, Hawke tried not to notice the feeling of a certain pair of mossy eyes on her.

“You put up a decent fight, all things considered,” the mage was saying, gently passing his hand over her forehead. 

“Let’s just say it really hasn’t been my week,” she snorted, relaxing as the healing relieved the pressure in her skull. “Ugh, that’s loads better.” 

They both turned instinctively as the bickering between Isabela and Aveline abruptly rose in volume.

“Let me know if you get another headache from the elements,” he quipped gravely as he stood, offering her his hand. She took it, giving a weak laugh. 

 

\-------

Feeling much more nervous than he had anticipated, Fenris was startled but relieved when Hawke took the empty chair beside him at Varric’s table.

“How’s your head?” he asked as casually as he could, clearing his throat.

“And here I was hoping only a few people witnessed that,” she moaned, grimacing good-naturedly.

“You didn’t let it keep you down,” he countered, nonchalantly bringing his wrists up to rest on the table as she rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps I should have---I could have avoided a little more head trauma, and it’s not like I won, anyway…” She faltered as she caught sight of the ribbon on his wrist, surprise coloring her features. Her dark eyes jumped to his, and he merely raised his eyebrows, swallowing down his doubts. 

She slowly held out her hand, and he gave her his wrist without even thinking about it, the lyrium glowing at the feel of her touch. He held his breath as she pulled the end of the crimson ribbon, easily unfurling the knot he had made---but breathed hard as she began to tie it properly, deftly securing it to his wrist.

“There,” she murmured, using the tip of her finger to smooth the ribbon flat against his skin. “Now the only way to untie the knot is to pull this,” she instructed, showing him the tail that she had tucked under it.

“Good,” he replied quietly, and he could see her swallow as she released his wrist.

“I’m...going to get a drink. Do you want anything?” she asked, cheeks darkening.

“I’m all right,” he said, inclining his head towards the glass of wine in front of him.

“Right,” she nodded, rising quickly, and as he watched her leave for the bar, he was helpless against the grin that took over his face.

\-------------

When Hawke finally made it back to the estate, confused, pleased, and not nearly drunk enough, she found an unexpected visitor in the study.

“Uncle,” she sighed, good mood evaporating. “Let me guess---you managed to sell another prime piece of real estate to some slavers.”

“Have you seen your mother?” Gamlen asked, impatient, and Hawke frowned.

“Is she not extremely asleep in her room?”

“Do you think me an idiot?” he groused, face pinched.

“Is that a rhetorical questio----”

“We were supposed to meet for lunch today, and Leandra didn’t show. No one has seen her all day.”

“Bodahn?” Hawke called, frown deepening. “Have you seen Mother today?”

“I believe she went out with her suitor,” the dwarf answered kindly, entering the room.

“ _ Suitor? _ ” she repeated, wrinkling her nose. Shaking her head, she walked past Gamlen (who was saying something definitely not worth her time) and approached her mother’s room, knocking on the door, then pushing it open.

“Holy shit.”

There was an enormous arrangement of white lilies on the nightstand.


	27. Chapter 27

Fenris gently knocked on the not-quite-closed door.

“Come in,” called Hawke dully, and he slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. She was sitting on the floor, her back leaned against the bed, staring emptily into the fire. He sat down beside her, careful not to touch her, and the only indication she gave that she even noticed was a small sigh.

“I do not know what to say---how to make it better,” he began, breaking the silence, “but I am here for you. For whatever you need.” She closed her eyes.

“That’s kind of you.”

“I’m not saying it to be kind,” he muttered, brow creased with worry. Hawke continued to gaze into the flames, face devoid of expression, and, eventually, he could take no more.

“Talk to me,” Fenris coaxed, and she turned her head to face him, lips pressed together.

“What do you want me to say?”

“How you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. Whatever you want.”

“I’m thinking…” Hawke rubbed her forehead with her palm. “I’m thinking I couldn’t have failed my family any more if I had actively tried. That if I couldn’t protect my own  _ mother _ , I can’t protect anyone. If I had just been more vigilant, paid more attention…” She shook her head, giving a bitter little laugh. “I’m thinking it should have been me who died in the Wilds all those years ago, instead of Carver.”

“You’re wrong,” he murmured, and she raised her eyebrows in cynical disbelief.

“Am I?”

“It happens to the best of us.” He took one of her hands in both of his, gauging her reaction, and when she didn’t seem discomfited, he lightly traced the veins of her wrist with his thumb. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Bullshit,” she scoffed, her scowl softly illuminated by the glow of the lyrium on his hands.

“We thought we had killed him. You had no reason to think otherwise,” he continued, feeling her pulse settle. “And, as much as I’d like to have known your brother, I wouldn’t trade you. For anything.”

Her brow crumpled, and she gripped his hand, knuckles white.

“I don’t know where to go from here: I don’t know how to move on from this,” she whispered, throat tight. “How am I going to tell Bethany?  _ What  _ am I going to tell Bethany?”

“Couldn’t Gamlen---”

“The only thing Gamlen has ever done right was notice that something was wrong, and I didn’t even believe him in time then. Maker, maybe if I’d taken him seriously…”

“Hawke,” Fenris murmured. “You are not to blame for what happened to your mother.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “I wish it were true. But nothing is black and white---it’s all shades of grey---and there are things I could have done,  _ should _ have done, and maybe this wouldn’t have happened---”

“ _ Lena _ ,” he growled, gripping her by the shoulder. “You did not kill your mother. It  _ is  _ black and white.”

Eyes still closed, she bowed her head, leaning into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, rubbing circles into her back the way he knew she liked until he felt her stilted breathing ease.

“Even if you had done all those things you’re thinking of,” Fenris said softly, “there’s no saying if it would have changed anything, because it wasn’t your actions that caused this.”

“Either way, she’s gone,” Hawke mumbled into his neck, “and I couldn’t stop it.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her.

“Me too,” she whispered.

 

\------------------

Two weeks had passed since the death of Hawke’s mother, and Varric and the others were beginning to hatch a plot.

“Look, if Hawke wanted to see people, she’d get off her arse and do it. She’s a grown woman,” shrugged Isabela over her flask of rum. “She knows where we’re at. When she’s ready, she’ll come out.”

“Of course you’d say that,” retorted Anders. “You’re always looking for the easy way out. Meanwhile, the only time your so-called best friend has left the house in the last fortnight is to tell her sister who lives in a mage prison that their mother has been brutally murdered.”

“If we do try and coax her out, perhaps we should avoid talk like that,” Varric said pointedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not healthy,” continued Anders. “She won’t see anyone, talk about it to anyone…”

“She talked to me,” corrected Fenris, and there was a pause as the others turned to stare at him.

“And you were planning on sharing this with the class  _ when _ exactly, Broody?”

“It was only the night it happened,” Fenris muttered, self-conscious. “She was...upset. She felt responsible. I told her she was wrong.”

“I bet she loved that,” Anders scoffed.

“She hasn’t let me see her since then,” he continued, ignoring the abomination.

“Or anyone else. Who tried, anyway,” added Aveline with a glance to Isabela.

“If you must know, I did try,” snapped Isabela. “I just know when to quit, unlike the rest of you.”

“So, what are we thinking?” inquired Varric, tenting his fingers thoughtfully. “Breaking in through the window? Setting a harmless fire? Throwing presents down the chimney?”

“Slow down there, pyromaniac,” sighed Aveline, exasperated. “As difficult as it is to admit, Isabela might be right. Everyone grieves differently. We can’t just force her to get over it and be as she was.”

“This isn’t about that!” sputtered Anders. “Hawke has gone through hell and is isolating herself and we’re just sitting here talking about it while she’s in pain. It’s not about trying to change her back, it’s about helping her keep going, and if you can’t see that, then---”

“Sorry I’m late,” panted Merrill brightly, bursting through the suite door with what looked to be a sack of fruit over her tiny shoulder.

“That’s all right, Daisy,” Varric replied, looking relieved that the argument had been defused. “Don’t tell me that’s a sack of kittens. Blondie’s already pretty worked up.”

“Kittens? Oh, that sounds lovely,” Merrill sighed dreamily. “These are pears.”

“Pears,” Anders repeated, and she nodded enthusiastically, smiling.

There was a prolonged pause.

“And you brought pears to this meeting because…?” prompted Fenris with a sigh.

“Oh! Perhaps Hawke will eat them,” Merrill explained.

Aveline buried her face in a gloved palm.

“Well, last I tried to visit yesterday, Orana asked me if I knew what Hawke liked to eat, because she hasn’t been eating much, and I said pears, and I would have said alcohol but that can make sad people sadder, so I got these,” Merrill expounded, at last picking up that she might not have been specific enough.

Anders sat back in his chair, arms crossed as he looked pointedly at Aveline.

“Well, we aren’t going to start a fire, harmless or otherwise,” the Guard-Captain groused, glaring at Varric.

“Just an innocent idea to get the ball rolling,” deflected the dwarf, batting his lashes.

“If it’s that bad, we’d better do something,” sighed Isabela, twirling a piercing thoughtfully. “I may have an idea---and it’s all packaged up nicely in a tin can.”

“Whatever we do, it’ll work better if it seems like we need her help: not the other way around,” offered Anders.

“I agree,” responded Fenris, to everyone’s surprise (including his own).

“Mountains are being moved this day,” muttered Varric as he pulled the quill from behind his ear and grabbed some nearby parchment. “All right, folks, shout ‘em out!”

“Sexy Templar!”

“Pears!!”

“I’m sure I could find something intermediate for her to do with the guard patrols,” mused Aveline. Varric pretended to write that down.

“We haven’t tried making new potions in a while…” proposed Anders.

“Or poisons,” Fenris remarked.

“Excellent stuff, keep it up!” called Varric as he scribbled it all down.

 

Meanwhile, in Hightown, Hawke sat on the floor by her bed, gazing into the fire, mindlessly cleaning her armor.


	28. Chapter 28

Every time Hawke heard the doorbell ring, she was gripped with a flooring wave of shame and uncertainty.

After she had told Bethany (who had taken it about as well as she’d predicted, but managed not to set the Gallows on fire), Hawke was done discussing “it”. She had no patience for her mother’s noble “friends” who came calling under the pretense of sympathy but in actuality wanted the details of what happened, no time for the practically Tranquil Chantry brothers and sisters come to tell her that her mother was “wrapped in the Maker’s great breast”, and she was much too deep in self-loathing to see her friends and act like she wasn’t some imposter who couldn’t help or protect them any more than she could her mother.

Bodahn was her savior, her guardian; no matter who turned up at the door, including the Grand Cleric and Viscount themselves, they were kindly and deftly turned away, and Hawke could breathe a sigh of relief every time she heard the door close behind them.

Orana tried her best to cheer up the melancholic Hawke---bringing in new flowers, trying new recipes, even teaching Sandor new tricks---but none of her efforts succeeded, making Hawke feel even worse, as she hated the dejection on the girl’s face. As much as she  _ wanted _ to feel better, to make both Bodahn and Orana stop worrying, she just couldn’t.

She had a number of unopened letters sitting on her nightstand that she considered reading from time to time, but the tentative emotional emptiness she had achieved seemed much preferable to any sharp feelings the words of her friends might inspire, so she spent her time training in the cellar or obsessively cleaning her equipment.

 

Hawke was doing the former when a familiar lilting accent nearly made her jump out of her skin. 

“Wouldn’t like to be that fellow,” remarked Cullen, referring to the training dummy with a head absolutely stuffed with arrows.

“What the---” started Hawke, wheeling around, arrow nocked. “Damn it, St---Cullen, how did you even get in here?”

“For my part, dumb luck,” he admitted, hands raised in surrender as she sheathed her bow, replacing the arrow in its quiver. She glared at him, hands on her hips, and he cleared his throat rather awkwardly.

“All right, who put you up to this? Varric? Isabela? Both?”

“I...well, in fact,  _ you  _ did,” he reminded her. “If the offer still stands, that is.”

Hawke sighed, shifting to cross her arms, looking him over. She was startled to find he was in plainclothes, foregoing the plate for once, and something about that same familiar perfect posture and earnest expression on his face made her feel just a little less homesick and wretched.

Which came as a surprise, as she hadn’t realized she was homesick in the first place.

“All right, Ser Rutherford,” she sighed, shaking her head with a small smile. “Let’s see if we can’t make a rogue out of you. The mystery of how you sprouted up in my basement notwithstanding.”

“I did just manage to get the drop on you for the first time,” he joked, and as she rolled her eyes, she felt the stiffness in her chest give a little.

\--------------

It genuinely appeared that they could not make a rogue out of Ser Rutherford.

“Come on,” Hawke coaxed, gazing up at Cullen in amazement. “You cannot be serious.”

“This  _ is _ me relaxing,” he insisted, and she gave another look to his statue-like posture.

“Okay,” she began, chuckling, “watch me…” And she revised her stance to be like his---shoulders back, spine ramrod straight, chin pointed gently up. “This is what you’re doing now.”

Cullen nodded, mouth set with focus.

“I want you to do  _ this _ ,” Hawke instructed, letting her shoulders flow loosely as she relaxed her neck, letting her muscles go slack.

He frowned, eyes squinted in concentration, and took a deep breath, shoulders just barely loosening as he exhaled.

“That’s...better,” she managed, shaking her head in wonder. “All right, maybe if I guide you,” she muttered, coming up behind him. “Mind if I touch you?”

“Go ahead,” he coughed, and she hid a smile at the pink spreading to the back of his neck.

“What do you do when you’re sneaking up on someone? Or hiding? You just...stay as tight as as bowstring?” she complained, gently palpating the rock hard surface of the tops of his shoulders with her fingers.

“I, ah, can’t say I’ve had to do much of either.”

“So  _ smug, _ Knight-Captain…” she teased, and he flushed even darker.

Smoothing across the horizontal plane of his shoulders with her palms, she felt him stiffen, which was exactly what she didn’t want.

“Just right here---let all the tension and stress fall away.  You don’t need these muscles right now, just let them rest.” Finally, his shoulders sank forward, though still not as much as she’d like for him to seem especially anonymous.

“Like that?”

“ _ Much _ better,” she praised, coming around to face him. “Cullen, I’m starting to think you need a vacation. Or a pay raise. Or both. You’re tense as hell.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think a vacation is in my future,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “Despite what you seem to think, my job isn’t just hanging around the Gallows all day looking stern.”

“Of course not!” Hawke gasped, the picture of innocence. “There’s blushing, also.”

Cullen shook his head, eyes narrowed playfully, and she burst into laughter, hand coming up to cover her mouth.

“Only when you’re around to provoke me,” he grumbled, but he was smiling. “By the way, your posture is atrocious. I’m afraid you’ve much to learn about being a knight.”

“Hawke, dinner is almost ready, are you----oh!”

Hawke and Cullen turned to behold a very surprised looking Orana coming down the stairs.

“It wasn’t me,” Orana promised, eyes wide, and Hawke chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Orana, I know. He apparently dug his way in here with Andraste’s own soup spoon,” she said with a glance to the pinkening Cullen.

“I should probably---” Cullen began, but Orana cut him off.

“Oh, no,  _ no,  _ I’ll make some more!!! It’ll be ready in half an hour!” the girl insisted, and before either of them could argue, she had run up the stairs with surprising speed and agility.

“Despite whatever illicit way you got in, you aren’t my---or Orana’s---prisoner,” Hawke snorted. “You’re welcome to stay, but if you need to go…”

“I’d love to stay,” he murmured, and she grinned.

“Orana’s cooking is life-changing. Even better than your cheese sandwiches,” Hawke teased, and Cullen chuckled.

“My cheese sandwiches didn’t exactly set the bar high.”

“I liked them, for some reason,” she winked, and they started up the stairs. “I’m going to go change out of this into something less sweaty----you can catch up with the dog while I do that, speaking of fans of your cheese sandwiches…”

“I almost forgot you have Sandy here,” he laughed, and Hawke gave a long suffering sigh.

“Maybe because his name is still  _ Sandor? _ ”

\-----------------------

After they had dinner (at which Bodahn suspiciously didn’t seem at all astonished by Cullen’s presence), Hawke took Cullen back to the study, Sandor wiggling gleefully behind them.

“You know, I really think he missed me,” grinned Cullen as he sat down on one of the couches, leaning down to give the mabari a hearty belly rub.

“Of course he did,” quipped Hawke with a roll of her eyes. “You always gave him table scraps.”

“He was a growing boy!” protested Cullen.

“Yes, and an essential part of a mabari puppy’s diet is cream cakes?”

“He turned out fine, didn’t you, Sandy?” he praised, and the dog gave him a look of utmost devotion.

“He never did learn to dodge fireballs, despite all those hours of training,” said Hawke, resting her chin on her hand. “We just throw a barrier on him and hope for the best.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” he reasoned, giving Sandor a last pat on the head and leaning back into the couch. “You know...Bethany’s barriers have gotten quite good. Some of the best in the Circle, I hear.”

“Ah,” Hawke sighed, crossing her legs. “There it is.” 

“Pardon?” Cullen said innocently, and Sandor jumped to sit beside him on the couch, also looking at Hawke with wide eyes.

“The real reason you’re here,” she stated, unconvinced by either.

“I came here to see you,” he maintained, and she raised an eyebrow.

“I think the last time you were here, I broke my hand on your face, and, as much as I would like you to, you aren’t the type to make social calls, so I know you didn’t come on a lark. Let’s have it.”

He was silent for a moment, lost in concentration, his hand going to stroke the mabari on the head seemingly of its own accord. Finally, he spoke, shifting in his seat.

“I’m worried about you, Lena.”

“Any particular reason why?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“You...you’re not acting like yourself,” he insisted, and she tapped the pads of her fingers on her arm, finding the kill spot.

“That’s not you talking,” she pointed out, voice becoming cooler. “Maybe you knew me well enough to judge that once, but now---”

“You haven’t seen Bethany in weeks, which is unlike you,” Cullen replied, voice even. “You won’t see your friends or leave the house, which is even less like you, and I think you’re hiding from something, which isn’t like you at all. Correct me, if I’m wrong,” he offered, crossing his arms to mirror her.

“You’re right. I haven’t seen Bethany, because, if you recall, our mother was murdered by a demented blood mage serial killer and I was entirely helpless to stop it. As much as I’d deserve it, I’d rather like to avoid her killing me and/or setting the Circle tower aflame in an emotional frenzy, so, no, I have not been to see her, because the last thing I need is to get the last member of my family killed or made Tranquil.”

“Lena…” Cullen began, brow creased, but she was now standing, fists clenched as she began to pace in front of the fire.

“Again, you’re right, I won’t leave the house, I won’t see my friends. The people that I love---that I’d kill for, that I’d die for---because what the fuck does that even mean, if I can’t even keep my own  _ mother _ from getting killed? Horribly killed? When she wasn’t even deliberately putting herself in harm’s way? How can I ask them to fight at my side against all manner of terrible things when I know that I could fail them, just like I failed her? How can I promise them my bow when I know how ineffective it is? I can’t.”

“But you’re wrong about one thing,” she scoffed bitterly, turning her back to him to face the fire. “I’m not hiding from anything. They should be hiding from  _ me _ \---they just don’t believe it yet. As long as I’m in here, I can’t get anyone else killed. Anyone associated with me may as well have a giant target painted on their backs, but I have enough blood on my hands. I’m not risking any more. Kirkwall is better off without me.” She sat down in front of the fireplace, cross-legged, and began to stare dully into it, exhausted.

“Bethany doesn’t blame you for what happened,” Cullen said gently, but Hawke remained unfazed. “And you shouldn’t blame yourself, either.”

“Easy to say, harder to practice,” she replied tiredly, watching a twig turn white with ash.

“It would be more accurate to blame me,” he pointed out, and she tilted her head in muted curiosity.

“How so?”

“It’s not the responsibility of mercenaries or vigilantes to track down serial killers or violent mages in Kirkwall---that responsibility falls to the guardsmen and the Templars. This is more my fault than anyone’s: if Meredith and I had taken Emeric’s initial reports more seriously, or referred them to the guard as a high priority…”

“It’s more your fault than the actual murderer’s?” she snorted skeptically.

“I could ask the same of you.” She heard him take to his feet with a grunt, coming to sit beside her on the carpet, Sandor trailing behind, and it was almost comical how much space they took up, the two bulky Fereldan warriors.

“She was  _ my _ mother,” Hawke muttered, still transfixed by the flames. “My responsibility.”

“You hold yourself to an impossible standard---you always have. Even though you’ve done more impossible things than most do in a lifetime, you’re not all-powerful. You’re just a person,” insisted Cullen. “If it were me in this situation, would you be saying these things? Or Bethany?” He paused. “Or Fenris?”

“No,” Hawke said, exhaling heavily. “Of course not.”

“Then why would you treat yourself any differently?”

“Because it’s  _ me _ , Cullen. That’s the point. Can’t you understand why I might feel…” She trailed off, swallowing thickly.

“More than you know,” he answered quietly.

Hawke was silent for a while, considering what he had said, taking in the not-quite-forgotten sound of his even breathing next to her as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Did you ever think our lives would possibly end up like this, all those years ago?” she asked with a sort of pained laugh.

“Never,” he admitted, shyly taking one of her hands in his large ones.

“Me either,” she sighed. “I’d be somewhat concerned if I had.”

“They haven’t quite ended yet, I hope,” he murmured, and she huffed, rolling her eyes. “Come see Bethany. Soon. You’ll both feel better for it.”

“Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?”

“She’s not a teenager anymore---she has control of herself. You know that. We’ve talked, and she predicted you’d be this way. She doesn’t blame you,” Cullen persuaded.

“If anything were to happen because of me---” Hawke began, worrying at her lip.

“Did you know that part of Templar training is watching candles burn themselves out as you reflect on passages from the Chant? For hours at a time? It’s supposed to teach patience. Of course, there are other things that they teach Templars, such as how to dispel surges of destructive magic brought on by emotional distress. I’ve always been better at the second than the first,” he lectured pointedly, and she lifted her head to give him a look of shrewd amusement.

“I was wondering when I’d find the breaking point. All those candles seem to have done you some good---took longer than I thought.”

“Even  _ if _ something were to happen, you seem to forget that handling it is part of my job, though I may not be able to do it stealthily,” he continued, ignoring her comments.

“Bethany wouldn’t be able to spot three nugs in a trench coat approaching her headfirst in broad daylight, so you’ve nothing to fear there,” she snorted. “All right, Knight-Captain. You win. And...thank you. I know I’m terribly difficult.” He laughed.

“Difficult, yes. Terrible? No.”


End file.
